Another One Like It Tomorrow
by Lettered
Summary: Angel repeats the same day over and over and over again.
1. DAY TWO part i

_**Premise: **Begins on what should be the day after the events inAtS episode S1.8"I Will Remember You." Angel has to live that day over and over again. On the first day, he doesn't know what's going on yet. I stole the idea for this fic from the movie _Groundhog's Day (_or that episode of Star Trek where the Enterprise keeps blowing up, if you want me to be Andrew)._

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Angel didn't want to wake up. He didn't want his senses to begin processing and not smell her, to open his eyes and not see her, to sit up and put his hand beside him and not feel her there, not even feel the evidence that she had been there at all. He lay there in the hazy place between sleeping and waking and wondered if it would have been better had the Powers That Be left evidence that the day They had swallowed might have happened after all. Would it be easier had the kitchen table been broken, had the sheets been sullied with melted ice cream and his dried seed?

Probably not at that, he decided, and wearily opened his eyes.

The nice thing about ceilings, unlike every other surface and article of furniture most people own, is you can't make love on them. You can't look at them and remember her lying there, beneath you, or standing there, between you and the wall, or straddled there, in some funny position across a chair because getting a woman from up against a refrigerator over to the bed had never had so many stops on the way.

Angel closed his eyes again, threw off the covers, and stood up. He was good at tucking thoughts away, at sealing them off so he didn't have to deal with them, so he could survive. He was good at forgetting.

_I'll never forget._

He padded over to the bathroom and turned on the shower. They hadn't gotten to the part where either of them had had enough of each other for her to announce she was going to the shower to wash him off of her—an explicit invitation to join her and put him back on her. They hadn't gotten to the shower, period. Angel was glad of that little respite. He would take what he could get.

He showered and went about his business, trying to forget what had happened—and what the Powers That Be had made not happen—yesterday. He had told Buffy to forget what they had had, to forget him, to forget the past three years. The least he could do was forget one day. He went to his closet to find something to wear, and scowled when he saw a black shirt hanging there that his mind told him shouldn't be there. He'd worn it yesterday, he thought. But then again, most of his clothes looked alike—something which constantly peeved Cordelia, which was one of the reasons he liked having them—and he could easily be confused.

Or his mind could be playing tricks on him because, as much as he felt he had spent a perfect day with Buffy, it hadn't happened, not really. Those tiny golden hands hadn't tugged at the fabric impatiently, hadn't torn, hadn't ripped until they got inside to feel the heartbeat skin to skin. They hadn't tugged on his waist band, or snaked beneath it, or touched him there; her eyes hadn't widened at the heat of him and her lips hadn't desperately tried to steal the breath from him that then, for the first time in centuries, he'd needed. She hadn't, in fact, touched him at all.

Pursing his lips, Angel selected something and proceeded to dress. When he was done, it was almost nine a.m. He heated some blood and sat down to drink it, knowing he should go upstairs. Usually he was up there by eight, though yesterday morning it had been more like eight-thirty. He'd come back from Sunnydale late the night before last, and it had taken a while to get his bearings. To brood, Cordelia would have said. Seeing Buffy on Thanksgiving had been far less traumatic than it could have been, but he had still needed time to recover.

But yesterday, seeing Buffy had been the worst it possibly could have been, and now he felt like he needed an eternity to recover. Cordelia and Doyle had understood when he had come up late after seeing Buffy in Sunnydale, and they had also understood when he had refused to talk to anyone after Buffy's brief visit. He'd spent the whole rest of the day shutting himself off and looking for things to kill, and that had been fine with them. They would understand if he came up a little late this morning as well. He wouldn't even need to think of an excuse.

Angel washed out the mug and went over to the punching bag hanging from the ceiling by the stairs. Instead of hitting it, he touched it thoughtfully. Cordelia had tried to mention something about a commercial for Angel Investigations yesterday, after Buffy left. When she'd seen the look in his eyes, she'd backed down, but Cordelia was stubborn. He loved that about her. It made her one of the best allies he could have ever chosen on his own—but most of the time it just annoyed the hell out of him. She'd said she was going to point a camera at him, and by the PTB, she was going to do it.

Angel used the punching bag to hold part of his weight, partially hanging there, thinking he should go upstairs, because there could be trouble. Doyle could have had a vision. If not, well, he could handle Cordelia, even Cordelia holding a camera. Maybe he would sit there and force himself to listen to her stupid ideas as punishment for procrastinating about going upstairs. Then he could come back down and punch the living shit out of this bag. He abruptly let go of the bag and set his mouth, decision made. It made him feel a little better. He headed for the elevator—and stopped.

Buffy.

It took a moment to catch his breath. He hadn't needed to do that in a long time, but he'd been breathing that day that hadn't happened yesterday—real, human breath. It'd been surprisingly easy to get into the habit, and surprisingly difficult to forget again.

_I'll never forget._

She was standing on his stairs, and she didn't look happy. "Your . . . friends showed me down," she said simply.

"I thought you left," Angel stuttered.

Buffy stepped down the final two steps. "I just got here."

"I meant, left . . . ." He trailed off, and suddenly his hand shot out to still the swinging punch bag. He turned his back on her, using it again to help him hold his weight. "I can't do this," he said finally.

"You can't do this," she repeated, stepping closer, her voice harsh and disdainful. "What about me? You can see me but I can't see you?" she grabbed his arm and pulled, forcing him to turn her. "What are we playing?"

Angel jerked away from her touch, remembering what had happened last time she had touched him—except that what had happened hadn't happened. The Powers That Be had made it unhappen. And yet he remembered . . . .

His eyes scanned her quickly, unsure why she'd come back when he'd arranged to have everything squared away so neatly for her visit the morning before. "We've been over this," Angel said carefully.

"Yes," she agreed. "I thought we had. So what is this? Some new torment you cooked up for me?"

"I didn't . . . ."

"Didn't what? Come to my town? Follow me around behind my back?"

She was still talking about Thanksgiving, he realized abruptly. For the world, it had only been two days ago, but in Angel's memories, it had been three, and in Angel's soul, it had been a lifetime. And yet, the day after that—the next day, the day that hadn't really happened—was imprinted so freshly into his being that it felt almost as though it was still happening, almost as though he still needed to concentrate very hard not to pull her into his arms and begin to touch her in ways that could only have one ending. "I already told you I was sorry," Angel said slowly, very carefully. "What else am I supposed to do?"

He could tell Buffy was trying to contain her rage. "I don't seem to remember you telling me any thing at all. You didn't even feel that I was important enough to tell me that you were there."

"What is this, Buffy?" Angel said wearily. "Why do you keep driving it home? Like I said before, it's because you're important that I didn't . . ." He trailed off. If she couldn't understand the first time . . .

Buffy took a step back. "Driving it home?" she repeated incredulously. "Don't you think that's a little . . . unreasonable?" Her voice was cool, a clear sign that she was angrier and hurting deeper than she could bear at the moment. "I was dealing. Then you come and drive it home to _me_ that you still get to control everything that happens between us, that you think I'm still in high school, that you think nothing's changed in my life since you left."

"Yeah, and you're acting really grown up right now," Angel said sarcastically, letting anger and frustration win out over the sweetness of seeing her and the confusion of why they were still talking about this. Buffy could be a brat—he'd told her so himself—but to return here and rehash this all over again displayed an immaturity that he did not associate with the woman he loved at all.

Yesterday, she'd been snippy and a little unfair when she had walked into his office, all hurt, all accusations, but after that she had shown both poise and wisdom—something that had hurt him and made him proud and made him want her more than ever, all at once. She had explained quite clearly why what he had done was something he couldn't do: he couldn't see her because it threw her. She had pointed out that even though she hadn't had a say in his decision to leave her, she would accept it, if he could hold to the decisions she made in return. Lastly, she had had the dignity to admit that she had needed help, and thanked him for it. She had proven quite eloquently that she was growing up, just as she said she was—yet another reason she didn't need him still trying to protect her. But she was still his girl, the hard, clear part of his mind told him, even after the turmoil of facing her after the swallowed day as if nothing had happened. She was his girl, and that—that woman holding her head up high and accepting she had to forget him because this was what mature people did—that was his woman.

This—this wasn't his Buffy, back again the next day just to make the same accusations she'd made already—for what? To make sure he felt guilty? To make him face her again because she'd learned it threw him, too? To whine about not getting what she wanted, because the mature course of acceptance she'd decided on was something she couldn't follow through? This wasn't his Buffy; she wouldn't . . . she wouldn't wear the same skirt two days in a row.

"I don't think I'm the one behaving like a child, Angel," Buffy was saying slowly. "I'm not here because my feelings are hurt—though they are. I'm not here because I think this can be in any way easy for us—it can't. I'm here because I know for a fact that this can't work if you try to be near me. When you are, whether I see you or not, I feel you, inside, and it . . . Angel . . . ?"

Angel was only half paying attention, his gaze focussed on the skirt. He'd only seen her wearing it for a few minutes both yesterday and the day that was swallowed, but it was definitely the same skirt. He would have noticed the garment right away had he not been so distracted by memories resting just under the surface of his every thought . . .

. . . pulling that soft white sweater over her head, nipping at the satin encasing her breasts and keeping them away from him, jerking at the lacey straps of her panties and hoping she hadn't particularly liked that pair . . .

He always paid attention to what Buffy was wearing. And wasn't wearing. It was the same skirt; he was positive.

"Angel?" Buffy said again, into the silence. The coolness was no longer present in her tone, replaced now with a slight tremor. Dimly, part of Angel was aware Buffy wanted to cry—he always knew just when she wanted that, and usually he was very good at preventing it . . . . Except the last time, he'd been crying too . . . .

_I'll never forget._

"Angel, are you even going to look at me?"

Angel kept his eyes on her skirt and took a step backward. "No," he said slowly. "I don't think so."

Of course, it could be that she had only packed a few outfits for her trip to L.A., so few that she'd have to wear the skirt again—but that wasn't like Buffy either. The Buffy Summers he knew would have packed three bags for two nights.

Her clothes, her behavior—so Buffy and yet so not Buffy—could have any number of explanations, but there were a hundred times as many because they were only hours away from a Hellmouth. Some spells and demons had far reaching effects and powers, and there had been one—a particularly powerful one—who had taken on the shape of his victims.

No, Angel told himself steadily, resisting the urge to meet her eyes. Buffy was not a victim.

_I'll never forget, _she'd said.

And she'd forgotten. One victim, coming right up . . . .

_A great darkness is coming_. _The End of Days has begun and can't be stopped . . . . _

The idea that the First Evil was here in L.A. and haunting him in the form of Buffy was not so very far-fetched, considering what the Mohra demon had said, Angel thought. And the First had picked the perfect form to take, if this really was the First and torturing Angel was once again its goal. Having to face Buffy after what had happened on the day that was swallowed inspired just as much guilt as Jenny Calendar or any other of his victims. That day with Buffy had shown him what could have been his redemption, and thus what he could truly never have, even had his decision to have the day swallowed been different. He did not deserve the gift that day had promised. He did not deserve . . . anything.

"Angel?" Buffy asked again.

"Stay away," Angel muttered raggedly.

A crash, then a scream drifted down from somewhere above. Angel heard it and processed it wearily. Buffy's eyes widened, and then she was moving, taking the steps two at a time.

"Angel!" The yell was hoarse, desperate.

Doyle.

Angel surged up the stairs, faster than a human eye would have been able to see. First Evil or no, those were his friends up there, and they sounded like they were in trouble.

Angel was nearly abreast of Buffy when they burst into the office. Cordelia was locked behind the green arm of a Mohra demon, and Doyle, in his demon face, was viciously tearing at the arm. Cordelia, uncertain whether to be more afraid of the Mohra or Doyle, wouldn't stop screaming. Buffy lunged, but not quick enough—

Not quick enough—

_For anyone of us that falls, ten shall rise_—

And Cordelia was falling—

Falling—

Angel, leaping into the fray almost simultaneously with Buffy—though she was still closer—never knew how he got the words out of his throat. A little thing in the midst of the other millions of things that might have hindered his speech, but wasn't he still convinced Buffy was actually the First? Still, the words poured out, loud and crystal clear: "Buffy, smash the jewel!"

With strength that was superhuman even for a superhuman, the kind of strength borne of watching a beautiful, often frivolous girl you'd known since high school bend her neck in that way—Buffy jerked on the Mohra's sword, and, while it was still in the demon's own hands, used the blade to smash the jewel on the demon's forehead. There was a burst of white light, and Cordelia was dead on the floor.

Angel, who should have been on his knees beside her, cradling her in his arms, looked at the clock, and saw that it was only several minutes after nine.

_

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To Be Continued . . .

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**Disclaimer:** Lines stolen from S1.8 "I Will Remember You." _


	2. DAY TWO part ii

"Cordelia," Doyle choked. "Cordelia, Cordelia . . ." It was a chant, by now.

"Angel!" Buffy demanded. "Are there any more? Angel!" She shook him. "Snap out of it! Are there more coming?"

Angel shook his head. "I don't . . . I don't know."

Usually, Angel was collected in a crisis. But something was wrong, terribly wrong, and not in a Cordelia-was-dead-on-his-office-floor wrong; it was a something-was-wrong-with-the-whole-world wrong. Something about what had happened was twisted, perverted, as if the very fabric of reality itself had been turned inside out. And for some reason the fabric of reality had something to do with Buffy's skirt.

Think, Angel was telling himself desperately. The blond Slayer kneeling to feel Cordelia's pulse could not be the First Evil. She was definitely who she looked like—Buffy Summers, love of his life and Vampire Slayer. He had guessed wrong and it had cost Cordelia her life. Cordelia was . . .

Think. Something else had been wrong today, something . . . inside out . . .

Or right side in.

His shirt. He had worn a black silk shirt yesterday and he had stripped it off carelessly, not wanting to remember how Buffy hadn't pulled it off of him, how she hadn't touched him. He'd left it inside-out on the floor. But this morning, it had been hanging right-side-in in his closet. Buffy had come down his stairs in what he had heard Cordelia call yesterday a Bulgarian skirt, and a Mohra demon had bashed through his inner office window at nine o' two a.m. On the dot.

Buffy had stood and was frantically talking on the phone to a 9-1-1 operator. Doyle was still kneeling beside Cordelia, propping her head up, stroking her hair. Angel looked at their clothing, but he couldn't be bothered to notice what his co-workers had worn the day before. He stood up and walked across his office to look at his calendar. "What day is today?" he asked.

"Oh God—Cordelia," Doyle choked. "Cordelia . . . Angel—she's . . . I think she's dead."

Angel swallowed thickly and closed his eyes. "I know." He had known the instant the three heartbeats in the room had dwindled to two. "Tell me the date." He swung around to face him, then, to meet Doyle's eyes.

Angel had seen eyes like that too many times. The demon inside him was roaring with approval; eyes like that were beautiful, a triumph of grief, despair, and helplessness. What made Doyle's exceptional was the wildness there, and that made Angelus jealous. Rarely had he been able to create the masterpiece of anguish that was now in this man's eyes. "Doyle," Angel said, very calmly. "I would not be asking if it wasn't extremely important."

Doyle swallowed convulsively, attempting to push back the assault of emotion after emotion—tide after tide of savagery and confusion. For the most part, he was unsuccessful, and Angel's stolen blood was reveling in it, savoring it. "It—it's . . . it's the twenty-sixth," Doyle finally managed. "I remember because I—" His eyes widened and swung back to Cordelia, and his voice stopped on a choke.

Angel looked at the calendar. The twenty-sixth. His eyes found the square on the calendar, and then moved to the square before it. The day before. The twenty-fifth. Thanksgiving Day, it read in italics, on the lower line of the square. That was it, then. The pieces of the puzzle—the skirt, his shirt, Buffy's behavior, and the time on his office clock—all of them clicked together in one simple, incomprehensible solution.

Today was yesterday.

"The paramedics are coming," Buffy was announcing, still holding the phone to her face. Her voice was tight, a dam against shock and any other reaction, so sharp and blade-like it would have made Angelus cackle, also, had Angel really had time to think about the emotion that tone was hiding.

"Xander?" Buffy said suddenly, her attention jerking back to the phone. "I need to talk to Willow. Or Giles. I called them but they . . . Good. Put Willow on. I need—No. Just—no. I can't talk to you about this right now. Give me Willow."

She was getting the number for Cordelia's parents, some part of Angel acknowledged vaguely. How much would her parents care? he wondered. Would it be fun to watch them grieve, too?

Angel grit his teeth against the questions. Knowing Buffy, she was going to get her friends over to L.A. to find out what the hell was going on. Buffy would refuse to believe that it was just a freak coincidence that a demon would jump in a random window and kill someone who had once been an almost-friend of the Slayer. But, if for nothing else, Buffy would get her friends to come because this was personal; this was a death she would feel the need to avenge; this was a death after which she couldn't just do nothing.

Angel wasn't about to do nothing, either, but even if the Powers fixed this, the Oracles hadn't exactly proven themselves forthcoming. He had to figure out what was happening so nothing else like this could happen again, and having a Watcher here would be a definite benefit.

The more the merrier, a little voice inside him said joyfully, because the part of himself he hated couldn't wait to savor the look in Xander Harris's eyes when he found out Cordelia Chase would soon be pushing up daisies.

Angel touched Buffy's arm, and her eyes flickered over to him in acknowledgement. One of the things he had always loved best about her was that at a time like this, they didn't need words. She didn't know where he was going or what he was going to do, but that touch on her arm told her enough: he was going to deal with this situation through his own channels while she dealt with it through hers.

His own channel happened to be under the post office. Angel had known as soon as Doyle had shown him how to get here that this was not the last he had seen of this marble hall with the white light shining at the end of it, but he had not expected to return so soon. He was already sick of the place. "Come before us, lower being," the male intoned.

"We've discussed this," Angel said, gritting his teeth against the realization that he had said the same thing to Buffy already this morning. If he had caught on to all the déjà vu sooner, all of this might have been avoided. He turned to the Oracle with the female visage. "I'm not a lower being, you said so yourself. I'm willing to sacrifice." He paused, his face infinitely dark, honing his voice into something deadly. "Now bring her back."

"You call us forth, and then proceed to speak with insolence?" she queried coolly. "Your offering?"

Angel ripped off his wrist-watch and threw it at the woman. Ironically, the Oracles' swallowing of the day had forced them to return both of his offerings, because they had arranged time such that he had never actually given them the watch or the china vase. He assumed that this would still be enough. Then he saw the male's arm rise, and realized that the Oracles were very, very upset by his behavior. "Wait," he pleaded. "Wait, I—you . . . The fold in time, I didn't expect it to happen like this."

The male pursed his lips and continued to raise his arm, but the female's own arm shot out before her counterpart could jolt him back through the Gateway. "Wait," she insisted. "He has bought a moment of our time with his. A lower being thinks in such reciprocal relationships. He is not normally equipped to comprehend the next dimension," she informed the male. Then turned her disturbingly colored eyes to Angel. "And yet you speak of Time folding. Why?"

Angel willed his frustration into a small corner of himself, making his face blank. Living with a demon under his skin had made him an expert at self control, but today felt as though it was stretching his limit to the breaking point. "Because you folded it," Angel answered slowly, as if talking to a child. "The first time I relived the day like I was supposed to, but the second time—I didn't expect it. It's not supposed to be like this. Cordelia's dead. I need to do it over again."

The male, who had leaned forward a little, straightened, and waved a dismissive hand. "He is suffering delusions," he told the female. "This is not our concern."

The female stepped down toward Angel, looking him over. Then she looked back toward the male. "He remains a warrior, brother, and thus our concern. His delusions may be the reason the Auguries proved false."

"What delusions?" Angel demanded, trying to keep a tight rein over his anger, over the picture of Cordelia in his head, twisted in all the wrong ways. "I came back and asked you to make me back into a vampire so I could protect Buffy, so I could go on fighting. You swallowed the day. It all worked. I don't know why you'd make it repeat again, it was good the—"

The female's eyes changed from discomforting to downright murderous in their intensity in a split-second. "You would sacrifice every drop of happiness and love you have ever known for another?" she demanded.

"That's not the point," Angel protested impatiently. "The point is the second time is messed up, and I need to—"

The male waved a negligent hand. "You do have a point, and thus the root of your delusions. A line is an infinite series of points, but time is not linear, mortal. What you speak of happened long ago, and at the same time has not happened yet."

Angel didn't even bother trying to work that out. What he was stuck on was the female's question, her incredulity that he would sacrifice so much for Buffy. And yet, didn't the Oracles already know that? The Powers were the ones who had folded time; they must know the reasons for it. Shouldn't they? Because something was tickling his mind, something like a resurgence of that good old déjà vu—the feeling that _they had discussed this before. _"You don't remember," he said slowly.

_I'll never forget._

"You're honestly telling me you folded time so thoroughly that even the Oracles of the Powers Themselves don't remember?" Angel asked. "How can that happen?" Suddenly, he laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "They must've really screwed this one up, because They didn't just do it once, They did it twice."

"The Powers That Be do not remember or forget. They are," the female said simply.

"We are vessels. The Auguries were wrong, but they have proven wrong infinitely and never. This is not our concern," the male intoned.

"But they were right," Angel protested. "You did lose a warrior; you just made it so I could be one again so you didn't lose one after all. And again today. You made another day just like it—" he had to swallow this particular déjà vu those words inspired; it was too much, too painful—"except that when it repeated again it didn't happen right. I need to do it again so it does," he told them angrily. "Cordelia isn't supposed to die."

"What is done cannot be undone," the male said simply.

"But what is not done yet can be avoided," Angel protested. "You said so yourself!"

"Temporal folds are not to indulge at the whims of lower beings," the male told him coldly.

"But you said . . . you said my sacrifice, my . . . willingness to give up every drop . . ." The image of Buffy in his arms, murmuring over and over again that she would never forget, never forget, was beginning to blend with the image of Cordelia, sprawled on the floor, her neck twisted in that obscene angle. Had he traded one for another? He knew with sickening certainty which one he would choose, every time, but no person should be forced to make that decision, to carry it with him for an eternity, to live with himself after he had made it. Why couldn't he have chosen himself? Why was he forced to choose between the woman he would love for all eternity and the woman a deep, sleeping part of him knew he had had the capacity to love for a lifetime? "Every drop . . ." he repeated dully.

"There has been no sacrifice," the female said simply.

"The events of which you speak have, to put it in the inaccurate terms more suited to your understanding, no place on your time line," the male explained. "They exist within your fourth dimension, but no mortal's mind could grasp the experience of them."

"You're saying it didn't happen," Angel said flatly. "You didn't fold time."

"In the limited reality one such as you is able to experience, no."

"But can't you still bring Cordelia back?"

"What is done—"

"Cannot be undone," Angel finished for the male Oracle, his voice thick with frustration. "You keep saying that! But she shouldn't have died; this isn't right." He paused, and then, as though it was dragged out of him, he said, "She was my friend."

"If that is so, then so shall it ever be," the female said gently.

"But it is of no consequence," the male concluded.

"The war rages on."

"Do not come to us again on so self-serving a matter," the man intoned, and lifted his arm, even as the female turned away.

* * *

_To Be Continued . . .__**

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**_

_**Disclaimed: **Lines stolen from AtS S1.8 "I Will Remember You" and 9 "Heroes"._


	3. DAY TWO part iii

When Angel got back to the office, the coroners were there. An ambulance had come, but by now was obviously not needed. The place was crawling with police. Doyle and Buffy were giving statements. Angel saw Kate, and wondered when she would die. He cared about her, and he was certain by now that must single her out to die soon.

"How many are we dealing with?" Buffy asked, breaking away from a police officer and coming toward him.

Angel just looked at her, his brow furrowing. After a moment, he realized that Buffy thought he had gone to do recon, to check whether there were more demons coming. "I don't think there are any more," he told her quietly. "Or at least, not today."

"But there will be. And we'll find them. And we'll kill them. What was it?"

"A Mohra demon. Could be a problem. Prophecy about the End of Days. For every one that dies there'll be ten more. Something like that."

"We'll kill those, too. Know where they hang?"

He shook his head. "No. Is Giles coming?"

"Yeah. And Willow. And . . . Xander." She set her jaw in that stubborn way of hers. He watched her physically tamp down the pain in her eyes. "We'll get them," she said. "We'll stop this. I'll kill them. I'll kill them all. And no jewels. I want it to be slow. I want to feed them their entrails." She said all of this very calmly. "I want to—"

"Buffy."

"Angel?" Her voice was high, for the first time revealing strain.

He was uncertain. He still remembered what had happened when he touched her when the day was swallowed, despite the image of Cordelia's body burned into his brain. And he even still remembered that Buffy had come here explicitly to tell him to stay away from her, that being near him made the decision he had made too difficult to bear. And so, it was with infinite care and a thread of doubt that he said,"Let me hold you."

She was in his arms. He was struck again by how well she fit there, by all the things her petite body, mass of golden hair, and wildly beating heart did to him. Of course, he desired her, but it was so much more than that. Holding her was reestablishing himself, a promise of redemption, the memory that there could be hope in the world. Holding her told him that even though he had killed Cordelia he couldn't just collapse into a pile of dust. He had to go on; he had to fight; he still had to pretend he could atone, because this little Slayer believed he could, because this Slayer would never give up; because this woman was proof that there was light and beauty in the world worth atoning for.

"There's something I have to tell you," he said quietly, into her hair. Doyle had finished talking to the police, and was coming over toward them. Angel glanced up, and then his eyes flicked back to Buffy. His arms were still around her. "Later," he whispered. "What's the story?"

"Burglar," she said simply, her voice back to steely. "Wearing black. Masked, and medium everything. You were out trying to chase him. He got away."

Angel nodded, and broke away to talk to the policeman coming toward him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Buffy lead Doyle to a chair, and when she sat down beside him saw Doyle's hand touch her knee. He didn't know whether he was glad that she was there for Doyle or that Doyle was there for her; he only knew that he could not have withstood this had both of them not been there for him.

Angel told the cop the story Buffy had given him to tell, but paused when Kate came toward him. "I got this one," she said. The policeman looked from one to the other, shrugged his shoulders, and walked away. Angel stood silently and watched Kate take off her blue latex crime-scene gloves. "I bet you were going to tell him medium height, medium build, medium weight, and oh yeah, you didn't catch his face," she said, scanning his features.

"Actually," Angel said, "I already told him that."

"Anything you didn't tell him?" Kate asked, raising a brow.

Angel remained expressionless. "Such as?"

"I've seen you in action," she replied, looking him over and then looking back at the broken glass spread all over the floor. "You're pretty fast."

"He got away," Angel replied shortly. His gaze drifted over to where Doyle sat beside Buffy, Doyle's head in his hands. His voice was hoarse when he said, "I was downstairs when . . . it happened."

Kate touched his shoulder, her lips pursed in protest. "It wasn't your fault," she said gently.

The muscles of Angel's face tightened, almost imperceptibly, but he didn't turn to face her. Kate's hand fell away, and she turned her head to follow his gaze. She stared at Buffy and Doyle for a moment, then turned back to look speculatively into Angel's face. "I'll try to get us out of here as soon as possible," she said, turning away. "Give you guys some room."

"Kate," he said, halting her where she stood. She half turned back, her large, expressive eyes beautiful and bright. "Thanks," he said.

"I'm sorry about your friend," she replied softly, and moved away.

Angel walked over to where Buffy and Doyle sat, his large hand drifting down to cover Buffy's where it rested on Doyle's back. Buffy looked up at him questioningly. Angel's eyes flicked to the CSI crew, shaking his head slightly. Buffy nodded and stood. Angel lightly tugged on Doyle's arm. "We need to go downstairs," he murmured.

Doyle looked up, stricken, and followed them to the elevator.

"Alright guys," Kate was announcing, her voice drifting out from the inner office. "Let's get this ball rolling. We don't want to be in here any longer than we have to."

* * *

Doyle and Buffy were sitting on his couch while Angel paced his apartment. Suddenly, he stopped, and turned to them. "They're gone," he said, and all three of them looked up. There were no more sounds above them, and Angel could hear cars driving away. Kate had gotten the crew out in record time. 

"I shoulda had a vision," Doyle said, gritting his teeth and pressing his palms hard into the sides of his skull. "Dammit! Why wouldn't it work when it matters? It wasn't supposed to be like this."

Buffy's mouth opened, but she looked over at Angel and bit back whatever she was going to say. Even though there were a thousand of other thoughts turning over in his head, Angel knew what she was thinking. Doyle didn't know her. He couldn't trust her, and so it was not her place to comfort him. It was Angel's.

Instead, Angel merely stood there, looking at Doyle. "He's right," Angel said. "This wasn't supposed to happen." Buffy's eyes widened minutely, and she turned to look at Doyle. Angel's partner—and . . . friend—lifted his head to look at the vampire. Angel turned his gaze away from those pain-filled eyes and instead focussed on Buffy. "But it's not his fault," Angel went on. "It's mine."

Buffy didn't say anything for a moment, but Angel knew her. This was the silence before the storm. "Now wait a minute," she said, as if on cue, her voice high and querrelsome. "Before we go assigning blame—"

"I'm not finished yet," Angel snapped, more harshly than he meant to, because he kept seeing the angle of Cordelia's neck in his mind, because a part of himself he refused to acknowledge was intoxicated by the pain in his lover's voice. "Something's happened today," he said, more gently, and Buffy shut her mouth. "Something . . . I'm not going to be able to explain very well."

"Try us," Buffy said quietly, and looked over at Doyle for confirmation.

Doyle swallowed hard. He just looked shattered.

Doyle hadn't experienced the death of a friend before, Angel realized, his dead heart twisting with pity. Oh, this was going to be fun, Angelus acknowledged, and Angel had to clamp down hard on a laugh he knew that neither Buffy or Doyle would understand or forgive.

Angel swallowed hard and looked at Buffy. He knew that she and Cordelia had not been good friends. He also knew that Buffy had had a grudging respect for the other woman's strength and stubborness. Most of all, he knew that watching someone you knew—someone you had fought beside—die when you thought you should've been able to save them ripped you up inside. It was enough to eat away a man's soul.

But looking at Buffy, at the way she converted rage and grief into righteousness, at the way she was going to face what was coming without blinking an eye and use all that hate to make the world a better place—looking at that was what Angel needed. It was all he had ever needed.

"This morning," Angel began, "when I went to get dressed . . . there was a shirt. I was sure I'd worn it yesterday, but it was there, hanging in my closet. And then you got here, and you were wearing that skirt," he went on, nodding at Buffy. "And I thought . . . Well, I thought you were evil." At the confusion in Buffy's face, he held up his hands. "But I know you're not," he hurriedly explained. "See, when the Mohra demon came—after he came—I . . . looked at the clock. And, according to . . . Well, he must've jumped through the window at nine o' two." Doyle and Buffy merely looked at him, and he looked from one to the other. "On the dot," he added, as if that explained everything.

There was a small silence, then Doyle looked from one to the other. "Mohra demon?" he asked.

"Here," Angel said, gritting his teeth in frustration and walking over to the book case. He pulled out the book of Kelsor and flipped to the woodcut print of the demon. "It's this," he said, handing the book to Doyle.

Both his co-worker and Buffy scanned the page. "Soldier of darkness kinda thing," Doyle said dully.

"They take out warriors," Buffy said, reading. She glanced up quickly at Angel. "Like me." She paused and her eyes widened. "Or you. You think it was—"

"After us? Yes."

"Is this what you meant by it being your fault?" Buffy asked softly. "Because . . . you lost me on the whole shirt thing."

"'To kill the beast one must bring darkness to one thousand eyes,'" Doyle read, looking up at Angel in realization. "The jewel. How did you know?"

"Because you told me," Angel replied, ignoring Buffy's question. "The Mohra attacked yesterday. We wounded it, and it ran away. You looked it up, and found the way to kill it. I went after it. You came too," Angel added, turning to Buffy. "You're the one who killed it."

"Um, Angel?" Buffy said, as if afraid to say what he already knew she was going to say. "I was in Sunnydale yesterday. And . . . according to Xander, you were in Sunnydale yesterday. And we were fighting vengeance spirit Thanksgiving guys. Not mutant ninja demon things."

"I know," Angel said. "I know it seems that way to you, but it's . . . not. It's just . . ."

"Maybe you should start from the beginning," Buffy suggested.

"Okay," Angel replied, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides in frustration. "On Thanksgiving, I was in Sunnydale. True. I got back late at night. I woke up the next morning, and went upstairs to the office at around eight-forty."

"But—" Doyle interrupted.

Buffy's eyes didn't move from Angel's. "Let him finish," she said tightly.

"You and . . . Cordelia were there," Angel said, nodding at Doyle, only stumbling over her name a very little. "She was . . . was telling you about—about Buffy and me. Wasn't she?"

"This morning?" Doyle asked. He looked stricken for a moment. That morning, when Cordelia was still alive, must already seem an age ago. "Yeah, she was," Doyle confirmed. "How did you . . .?"

"Like I said, I was in my office," Angel replied, not expecting him to understand. "And then you walked in the office," he went on, turning to Buffy, "wearing that skirt. And you were mad about me coming to Sunnydale. You said . . ." He swallowed thickly and glanced at Doyle, then fixed his eyes on Buffy again. "You said when I was near you you could feel it. And it threw you. And that's why I shouldn't come to your town."

Buffy merely looked at him, her wide, hazel eyes trying to process the fact that he had known what she was thinking earlier that morning, even though she hadn't said it, even though it wasn't something she had even meant to think. And despite everything that had happened that morning, Angel saw the ache in her eyes, saw that she wanted him to acknowledge what being around him did to her, that she wanted to hear it said back.

He couldn't. Not now, not when visions of her naked and under him were still so raw, especially now that he needed what those images promised so much, because her love was the only thing that could take away his guilt, take away the vision of Cordelia twisted and broken. "Then the Mohra jumped through the window," Angel went on hoarsely. "Buffy and I fought it, but we only injured it. Like I said, it ran away. I tracked it; I killed it, some of its blood mixed with mine. It . . ."

"Has the blood of eternity," Doyle finished for him.

Buffy's nose wrinkled and she finally turned from Angel. "What?"

"Says here," Doyle said. "It's 'veins flow with the blood of eternity.'" He looked up at Angel, bright blue eyes narrowing. "It's regenerative."

"You mean he'll be back?" Buffy demanded.

"Not that one," Angel replied.

Doyle was still looking at Angel. "It . . ." he began.

"Made me mortal," Angel said.

Buffy blinked. "What?"

"I was human," Angel replied, more loudly. "But the Mohra came back to life. You killed it—again," Angel went on, nodding at Buffy, "but I realized I wasn't much good to anyone as a . . . a . . ." Buffy was looking at him, and he couldn't bear the pain and longing in her eyes. He turned away, and forced the words out. "I wasn't any good as an . . . average Joe. So I went to the Powers That Be—and they . . . They swallowed the day."

"They what?" Doyle asked. "You went to the Powers That Be?" There was a pause. "Did I . . .?"

Angel swung back around, avoiding Buffy's eyes. "You showed me how to contact them," he said to Doyle.

"And you're saying they . . . what, turned back time?"

"Yes. They sent me back to before the Mohra demon came, with only me remembering what happened. Since we had figured out how to destroy the demon, I could kill it without ever touching its blood, without ever becoming human." Angel's voice almost broke over the last word. He wanted to glance at Buffy, but he didn't dare. He could smell the tears she was desperately swallowing.

Doyle was up out of his seat, moving fast towards Angel. Then he was turning away, then coming at him again, teeth grit. "If you knew what was going to happen, why weren't you there? If the Powers turned back time so only you could remember it, then you knew when the demon would come; you knew how to kill it; you knew we were in your office and Cordelia—Cor—Cordel . . ." His voice trailed off, choking.

"I did," Angel said thickly. "The Powers That Be returned me to the very moment the Mohra jumped through the window. I was talking to Buffy; the Mohra jumped through; I bashed its jewel with my clock at nine o' two."

Doyle's face moved through several expressions before he could speak again. "What?"

"I killed the Mohra demon," Angel repeated. "After that, I finished talking to Buffy. She said what she had to say and . . ." He faltered, almost glancing over at her again. "And then she left. You and . . . and Cordelia were safe," he said, turning back to Doyle. "We lived out the rest of the day, and we all went to sleep. But when I woke up this morning . . ."

"It was the same day," Buffy said, standing up, and finally speaking. "You didn't expect it to repeat again, so you didn't know the Mohra would be coming again."

"I should have," Angel said, still not looking at her. "I should have known. Folding time . . ." he shook his head. "It's bound to come with complications. I should have been prepared for anything. Instead I just . . . I just . . ." He trailed off, again seeing Cordelia's body in his mind's eye.

"But can't the Powers That Be . . . They swallowed the same day before, right?" Doyle asked, his voice gaining momentum. "Can't we ask Them again?"

Angel, unable to bear the eager hope in Doyle's eyes, looked away.

"He already tried," Buffy said softly, realizing it as she said it.

"But . . ." Doyle trailed off, his shoulders slumping.

"Something to do with paradoxes," Angel muttered. "I don't know. I only know I pissed them off, and they weren't about to do what I asked."

"So it's . . ." Doyle looked around. "She's gone."

"We might be able to do something," Angel said, hope lost to his voice. "Giles might be able to . . ."

"Yeah," Doyle said, sitting down heavily.

Angel could feel the weight of Buffy's stare grow heavier every moment he avoided her eyes. "Doyle," he started, "I'm going to . . . Buffy and I are going to . . . to talk. Are you . . . ?"

"Yeah," Doyle repeated dully. "Yeah. It's okay."

Angel, for the first time since telling her he'd asked to be remade into a vampire after being a human a whole day, turned to look at Buffy. The pain in her eyes topped anything he'd seen yet that day, and the demon trapped beneath his soul positively basked in ecstasy.

* * *

_To Be Continued. . .

* * *

_

_**Disclaimer:** Lines stolen from S1.8 "I Will Remember You" and 9 "Heroes"_


	4. DAY TWO part iv

Buffy was silent as Angel pulled the rolling doors of the bedroom closed. She perched on the edge of his bed. She turned her head and her eyes widened at the twisted sheets and beaten pillows, but she only turned her head away carefully and looked at him wearily. "This . . . this can't be the right time to talk about . . . what I want to talk about," she said at last. "I . . . Cordelia . . ."

He knew exactly what she meant. She was wondering if it was selfish to demand to know why he hadn't wanted to remain human. She was wondering if she was an awful person, because the first thing that had leapt to her mind when he'd said he'd been given life again hadn't been to wonder where he was going with that, hadn't been to wonder what strange thing was going on that had caused the death of her high school class-mate. Her first thought had been to wonder why hadn't he stayed human so that they could be together.

Angel didn't blame her, considering his first thoughts when he'd realized what the Mohra had given him had not been how much of Los Angeles would suffer, now, without his protection, or even how could he protect Buffy, now that he was only mortal. His first thought had been to wonder whether Buffy would taste better this way. The thought had been spurred by mortal hunger, but still, all the next thoughts had been about being with her and moving back to Sunnydale and marrying her and being a father and making love to her over and over and over again. Only after a long string of those thoughts did his hunger hit him again, the pangs so intense and unfamiliar that he still didn't realize what they were, and then the thought of sunlight made him forget to wonder.

Angel closed his eyes briefly, and then opened them again. "It's all right," he said. "Ask."

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

The catch in her voice almost broke him. All of this that had happened this morning, and this was going to be the thing that made her cry. It figured she would break down just when he could stand it the least. "No," he said at last.

"You know," Buffy said, looking away. "It's a good thing I didn't fantasize about you becoming human about ten zillion times, because finding out it happened and you weren't even going to tell me about it would've been a real let down."

"You said that. Before," he clarified.

"I . . . Oh God," she breathed. "You didn't even tell me . . . Then?"

"No," Angel said hastily. At the expression on her face, he rushed on, "I mean, yes. I did tell you that'd I'd become human. You said that about—about . . ." She'd said that about the human-him fantasies when he actually had been human, and now, just as then, it sent his mind zooming in channels it shouldn't be in. Fantasies; she'd fantasized about him human; when had she done that; was it as often as he had; was it every night, every waking moment, the way he had dreamed about being with her?

"I know when I said it," Buffy said suddenly, realization in her voice. "I said it after you turned human and told me that . . . that even though you were human, you still didn't want to . . ." Her voice was breaking as she finished her thought. "You didn't want to be with me." Seeing what she took for confirmation in his eyes, her mouth fell open, and she pulled up her hand to cover it. He knew she was stifling a sob. After several moments she took her hand away, sucking in deep breaths. "I'm right, aren't I?"

Angel looked at her, misery and anger tugging equally in his face. "I would never say I don't want to be with you, Buffy," he said at last.

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you," she snapped, sudden tears springing to her eyes. "Because that's exactly what I remember you saying when you—when you didn't want to be with me any more."

"What I said was—"

She waved her hand. "I know. I'm not . . ." She turned away, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes and taking deep breaths. "I didn't mean to bring that up. It's just . . .You decided on the mature plan, didn't you? About you being human. I know you, always with the maturity. You wanted to be sure you were alive—for good. And you—you didn't want to mess things up in my life, either, is that it? What did you decide? That I'd go home? That you'd call me? I'd call you?"

Now was the moment he had been dreading. He could tell her that they'd decided that, but that neither of them had ever been very mature when it came to each other, had they, and the second she'd touched him he'd gone off at her like a loose cannon, like a teenager touching his first woman, unable to turn off his lust for her despite the fact that it was so much more than lust, despite the fact that he loved her and only wanted to live to make the world a more perfect place for her.

He could tell her that, but Angel remembered this morning, remembered remembering what hadn't happened, how it had tortured him so much more than it would have could he have blissfully forgetten all the ways his body seemed made for hers, all the ways his soul sometimes thought that perfect happiness be damned, it just wouldn't stay attatched to this carcass and this demon if he couldn't be with her. Angel could spare her that pain, and he would. Buffy didn't need to deal with the knowledge of the happiness they were never meant to share on top of Cordelia's death. And so he answered her, in the only way he knew how, his voice flat. "Yeah," he said. "Something like that."

Buffy was shaking her head, still taking deep, rasping breaths. "I can't believe I'd agree to that. That we'd . . ." Her voice caught as a single tear trickled down her cheek. "I felt your heart beat," she whispered.

Angel took a step away from her, turned away, and closed his eyes. "You said that, too."

"Did I?" she demanded, sudden and hot anger in her voice. "And was it in past tense then, too, Angel? Because somehow I doubt you discussed the whole unturning human thing with me, either, because I never would've agreed to it."

"The Mohra demon said the End of Days was coming," Angel explained. "The Powers That Be . . . said that you would die sooner without . . . a warrior—without me—to protect you."

"Of course," Buffy said, almost sarcastically. "You did it for me. It's always what's best for me. Did it ever occur to you that what's best for me is you?"

"Yes, it did," he told her, turning to face her. "But how can we be together if the cost is your life?" He paused, knowing what he said next would drive it home, because it had done so last time. He added it gently. "Or the lives of others?"

At last, Buffy began to cry. "I can't . . ." she mumbled through her tears. "I can't believe she's dead. Everything just seems so . . . wrong." She looked up at him through her tear filled eyes, so like she had that other day, the day she'd forgotten . . .

_I'll never forget . . ._

"Angel," she said, her voice a simple plea.

He knew exactly what she wanted without her asking—but how could he hold her when the rest of him was screaming for comfort, too? When holding her now would only remind him of holding her in that last, beautiful, bittersweet minute they'd had together, his heart beating in sync with hers? When all that they had built of their own lives in these past few months they'd been separated could come crashing apart with only the simple brush of her hand against his?

Stiffly, Angel stepped toward her, and gathered her up in his arms. He held her as she cried, for them, for their lost day, for Cordelia, and for all the tears he himself could not shed.

* * *

By the time Giles, Willow, and Xander arrived, Doyle, Buffy, and Angel had taken apart most of Angel's book shelves in order to research time folding, day swallowing, day repeating, and "general day suckage" (as Buffy put it), but hadn't had much luck. It didn't help that as intent as each of them tried, in their own way, to be, they were finding it hard to focus. When Buffy slammed yet another tome down on Angel's table, Doyle spoke for them all when he put his head in his hands and said lowly, "I think I want to go kill something."

Buffy hadn't told her Sunnydale friends what had happened, only that Cordelia had had a an accident and that she needed their help. It was Angel who told them, and Willow who cried. She hadn't been Cordelia's friend either, but the shock was overwhelming, and Cordelia had helped them over the years, even saved their lives once or twice. She had been a part of their group. Giles swallowed hard and looked haggard, older than his years. Angel knew exactly what he was feeling. Cordelia had been young, under his care—his responsibility. She had been Angel's responsibility, too. The difference was she had also been Angel's friend.

Xander's was the reaction that surprised him. The boy's eyes flickered, his mouth tightening. He looked away, and Angel saw a movement out of the corner of his eyes that the demon, highly amused, informed him was the boy's hand coming to his eyes. But when Xander turned back to the group, his face was set. When he spoke, his voice was hard. "What are we going to do?" he demanded.

That was all. No display of anguish or suffering. Angelus was disappointed. The demon would have even settled for the boy turning on Angel and blaming the soul, taking it out on him and insulting him, as was his habit. The demon was always entertained by the teenager's jealousy, his irrational and immature hatred, his incompetent posturing against an older, stronger man—but what Angel's darker half enjoyed most was that the boy somehow always succeeded in striking a nerve. That his soul could be jealous or made insecure by what the demon saw as a snivelling, unseasoned adolescent tickled the soulless part of him immensely.

But if Xander blamed Angel, he wasn't letting it show. Instead, he seemed determined to use his grief to make this right, to . . . go on fighting. Like Buffy. Angel knew Xander had merits, or else he wouldn't have been Buffy's friend. And even though the vampire had never liked the boy, he'd even developed a grudging respect for him. Right now, however, Angel felt positive warmth for the kid. If this was the man who was going to be fighting beside Buffy in Sunnydale, Angel could have at least one less qualm about having left.

It took a while to explain to Buffy's friends about the time folding. He let Buffy handle it, since Buffy told him he'd been wrong to start with "the shirt part." He hadn't known how else to tell it. It was all so . . .

"Weird," Willow concluded, shaking her head, sniffling.

Angel was focussed on the issue at hand, but even as Willow spoke he glanced at her and noticed absently she was in quiet despair. Her eyes held another loss, other than Cordelia; she had already been suffering before she had learned the news. Perhaps it was not significant to the events of this morning, but that what had happened should hurt his lover's friend—and a woman who had trusted him—when she was already in pain seemed just another weight on his soul, another twist of guilt, another cross to bear. One day those crosses would burn him alive.

But not yet. Not today. Buffy wouldn't have allowed it.

"The Powers That Be don't live in our reality," Doyle was saying, in response to something Giles had asked. "You have to approach Them through channels. Dangerous channels."

"But Angel approached Them," Giles said.

Doyle shrugged. "I guess I showed him—'cept I don't remember."

"Where are these—channels?"

"Under the post office." At Giles' expression, Doyle looked defensive. "Hey, I don't know, man. It makes sense when you think about it."

"Actually," Willow said quietly, "it kinda does."

"But you spoke to them," Giles went on, turning to Angel.

Angel nodded. "First, I told them to turn back the day I turned human. And they did. Then, I asked them to turn back today, for . . . for Cordelia. But they wouldn't."

"This is . . . unheard of," Giles said. He turned to Angel and said, "Tell me everything about these . . . Oracles. From your first meeting with them through to today."

Angel nodded, and proceeded to relate his first trip, which he hadn't actually told anyone about yet. The trip had been to assure that he really was human and that he would stay that way. Buffy looked at him quickly at this, but Angel avoided her eyes. Then he told them about asking to be changed back, made inhuman again, and how the Oracles had told him the Powers could swallow the day. Then he told them about asking that They do it again to save Cordelia, and how the Oracles hadn't even seemed to know what he was talking about.

"Maybe you need a better present," Xander said suddenly into the silence, after Angel had finished. "I mean come on, a wrist watch for the Powers That Be? I have one of those. And a vase? I could get that at a garage sale." He wasn't joking. His voice was tense, hard. A blade.

"Isn't there anything we could do to persuade them?" Willow said hopefully.

Giles shook his head. "The Powers That Be so rarely interfere in the lives of lower beings that I'm even having trouble believing that They did swallow the day in the first place. That They would do it again just to prevent an accident is . . . stretching it."

"What're you saying?" Xander said slowly.

"Well," Giles said, removing his glasses, "not to—to . . . presume . . . But what if the problem is Angel?"

"What?" Buffy demanded.

Giles sighed and took out a hand-kerchief to wipe his lenses. "Buffy, I . . ." His gaze flicked over to Angel and his lips pursed. "I trust Angel as much as the next . . ." He faltered as he realized that half of the people in the room probably didn't really trust Angel all that much. He sighed and looked directly at Angel. "I believe you believe that what you say is true. But . . . I have heard of—false memories. Supposedly, there are monks who can . . ."

"You're saying it didn't really happen?" Angel said tightly. "That I just dreamed the part about becoming human? That I didn't see the Oracles at all?"

"That's not what I'm saying," Giles replied. "I'm saying someone could have implanted these memories."

"But why?" Willow asked.

"I don't know," Giles said, shoving his glasses back on his nose. "I just know that it seems implausible that the Powers That Be twisted the whole fabric of reality in order to make a day repeat itself—twice. It seems more likely that Angel himself is the problem."

"Stop saying Angel is the—" Buffy began, her tone sharp.

"Maybe I am," Angel said slowly. "The Oracles . . . they said . . . They said I was delusional."

"Yeah," Xander agreed. "Maybe when they were acting like they didn't fold time they were acting like that because they really didn't." Xander turned to Angel, face half a sneer. "Maybe you've just gone loopy."

The rest of them looked at each other uncertainly. Doyle was looking away, his eyes on the books spread out on the table. "It's still not going to bring Cordelia back," he said wearily.

"But maybe we can try," Willow said suddenly. Everyone looked at her, and she looked back, giving a nervous sniffle. "Well, even if Angel is mad as a march hare, there's got to be a reason for it. Maybe his mind holds the key." When everyone still just looked at her, she rolled her reddened eyes and stated the obvious. "Maybe the day really can be swallowed, and we just have to find out how."

"Right," Buffy announced. "I think some of us should research monk stuff. False memories. See if there really is anything wrong with Angel. Another group should keep researching the time folding and looping day stuff."

"Shouldn't we find out more about this demon?" Doyle asked.

"He said something about the End of Days," Angel said. "It sounded bad."

"The End of Days?" Giles asked, sounding worried. "Really?"

"We can deal with that later," Buffy said decisively. "Right now, I've got a visit to make. Angel, you're with me. Willow and Xander, you're on the monks. Doyle and Giles, the time stuff."

"Where are you going?" Willow asked.

"To visit the Powers That Be."

* * *

_To Be Continued . . ._ **

* * *

_Disclaimer:_**_ Lines stolen from AtS S1.8 "I Will Remember You"_


	5. DAY TWO part v

"It's not going to work," Buffy said finally, defeat creeping into her voice.

Angel refrained from saying, "I told you so"—though he had. He had warned her before they'd left his apartment, but she had been determined. The walk through the sewers to the post office and been silent and tense. When they'd gotten to the Gateway, Angel had put the herbs he'd brought in the urn, repeated Doyle's words from the day that was swallowed, and set the contents of the urn on fire.

And nothing had happened. They had tried everything; Buffy had even made him leave the cave, guessing that maybe the Oracles were angry with him and didn't want to see him again. Nothing had worked.

"Do they know who we are before we get in?" Buffy asked. "Because maybe it really is you. Maybe you need to be farther away when I do the beseechy thing." She was grasping at straws, and her face was lighting up like it did whenever she was about to suggest something ridiculous. "Oh! Maybe they think you're going to try a cagey throw-your-purse-in-the-door-to-hold-it-open spy thing, like you'll sneak in behind me or something."

"I don't have a purse," Angel said evenly, "and there's not a door. Just . . . light."

Buffy played with the fabric of her sleeves. She had changed from the skirt into the outfit she'd worn to hunt the demon on the day that wasn't, and he desperately wished she hadn't. He remembered ripping those clothes off of her, remembered tasting her underneath. Acting like it never happened when so many things in this day were so much the same was torture. Worse still, the thing that kept him in check was the one big contrast that made this day different from the last: his friend had died today, and it was his fault.

At last, she looked up at him, looking like a petulant child. "But you got in earlier today," she said, her voice almost a whine.

"Maybe I did because they didn't already know what I was going to ask."

"Yeah, but . . ." She stuck out her lower lip. "They just don't have the balls to face to me."

He knew her pouty display was an attempt to act normally to keep from falling apart. It acknowledged that he had been right in saying going to the Oracles would do no good, and it was also an admission that she had expected to prove him wrong, to make make the Oracles do what she wanted merely because it was her, because sometimes her pride was the biggest thing he knew. And Angel wanted to touch it, to hold it, to clothe himself and revel in it, because she had a right to that pride. It was arrogance to believe that one person could change the world—but Buffy believed it, and if that hubris was a sin he would willingly follow her into Hell.

He'd already been once. With her, it couldn't be that bad.

"Stop looking at me like that," Buffy said, cutting into his thoughts. She looked away uncomfortably and began to walk out of the cave. "We should go back. I'm guessing we might need a trip to Sunnydale—or elsewhere—for more books."

Angel didn't speak, merely followed her out and back down into the sewers. "Um," she said after a moment, stopping. He stopped a pace behind her—trying not to look at her like that. "Which way do we go?" she asked, and half turned back to him.

Angel didn't look at her. He brushed past her and turned right, and now Buffy walked behind him, their feet the only sound in the darkness. On the way to the Gateway, the sewers had sent a strange prickling sensation skittering down Angel's spine. Now that they were back in them, Angel could feel it again. It was the feeling you had when someone walked into a room, right before you turned to face the door.

"Maybe we should've brought a better offering, like Xander said," Buffy said, breaking the silence.

It was painful that her voice was still hopeful. "They took it last time," Angel said shortly, glancing down at the vase in his hand. Hearing her suck in her breath, he paused, waiting for her to come abreast of him. He went on walking beside her and said, more gently, "I don't think they know what our offering is until we get in."

She pursed her lips and reached to take the vase from him. When their hands brushed, she jerked back, almost dropping the vase she was now holding. She didn't say anything. Angel didn't say anything. She looked at the vase, and they walked in silence. "It's pretty," Buffy said at last.

"It's expensive," Angel replied, shrugging.

"Where do you get money for this stuff, anyway?" she asked, handing the vase back. "I never was able to figure that out."

Angel almost laughed, and Buffy looked at him swiftly. "What?" she demanded.

He glanced at her, expressionless. "Nothing," he said. Hurt flashed through her eyes, but she didn't press the point, and kept walking. Scowling, Angel followed her. He hadn't wanted to tell her that he'd been laughing because he'd been thinking of Cordelia, of how Cordelia's questions had never tended to where he got his money, but how come he didn't have more of it. "You're two hundred and change and you don't even had an investment portfolio?" she'd demanded once. "What about a bank account? A two hundred year old bank account could be collecting a hulluva lotta interest, mister!" Angel winced and followed Buffy.

The strange prickle at the back of his neck continued. Angel rubbed his nape and said, "This feels weird."

"I know," Buffy said quietly. "I mean, it's . . . twisted. I only came to see you so I could tell you face to face not to see me face to face any more—and I know there's a fly in that logic ointment somewhere, but now . . . You've lived three days in one, and—and Cordelia . . ." She sucked in a breath and looked away. When she continued speaking, her voice was low. "And you were human. I can't—can't get past that. I should have known. Something bad always happens when we're together."

"I meant it feels weird in here," Angel elucidated. "Like we're being watched."

"Oh, okay," Buffy said, and started walking again quickly. "Let's just rewind Buffy's little outburst and—"

"Pretend it never happened?"

She looked at him, something like confusion and something else—something very like shame—flooding her face. "Yes."

Angel frowned and grabbed her hand. "Something bad doesn't always happen," he told her firmly. She needed to hear this. She needed comfort more than she needed him to be careful, to be sensible, to be strong and stoic for both of them. She needed to remember that they had loved each other and that he still did love her, even though it was never a safe thing to say. His voice was low when he said simply, "Sometimes, it was very good."

He heard her breath catch. She looked at him, the something like shame still coloring her features. "That's part of what's so . . . twisted," she said, her voice trembling. "Something bad really happened and I'm angry and upset and I'm—I'm—I don't even know what I am. But instead of thinking about all that, I keep thinking about . . . about . . ."

"That's not wrong," he said gently, letting go of her hand.

"Isn't it? Because you don't even—you don't even . . ."

He stifled a sigh, recognizing the hurt and embarrassment from when she had said almost the same thing about their relationship being confusing on the day that was swallowed. She wanted to hear now what he had told her then, but then, it had tumbled from his lips without him thinking about it too much. Telling her he wanted her probably even more than she wanted him wasn't going to make this easier. If anything, he should tell her he didn't want her at all, and then she could forget about him. "I . . ." he began, firmly to resolved to do what was best. "It is confusing," he ceded at last, trying to be fair. "And when we're apart, it's easier." There. This time, he would stop there. She didn't need to know the rest.

But that look in her eyes—He couldn't do it. "It hurts," he went on, unable to stop speaking now—again. "Every day. I—I—God," he choked, releasing a breath he didn't need. He was saying it all over again, everything he shouldn't say. "I want to touch you. I want to—so much."

This is pathetic, the demon inside him told him. Unbidden, images of Buffy writhing, sweating—naked—a leg over his shoulder—nails deep in his back—gasping his name over and over and—

He could have had her, Angelus was letting him know, savoring his pitiful misery. Through a simple accident, he had exorcised his demon and gotten everything he wanted—and he had thrown it all away because his pretty little soul was a masochist. And we all know who's the sadist, the demon reminded him. Memories of her from that lost day thrust themselves into the space behind his eyes, impossible to ignore. Impossibly painful.

Buffy was inching closer. "But you could have touched me," she said, and he hated the fact that her voice echoed his demon. What he loved about her was how different she was, how antithetical she was to this ugliness inside of him. That her and the demon should agree—it's fun, the demon was telling him. Buff being agreeable was new and different. He had a fetish for the untried. And she had such a tight little—

"You could have," Buffy was repeating. "You could have—even just once. You were human. Didn't you think about it? Even just a little?"

Oh, he'd thought about it, but it wasn't the thinking part that was going to tempt him or persuade him. No chance of that, the demon laughed. It was the part of his soul that didn't think, didn't need to think, that knew from the simple touch of her hand that thought was pointless when it came to her—that was the part that had appeased both of their desires that day, and and he'd been wrong to give in. If he had thought about it more, he would have known he couldn't be human because when he was alive, he couldn't protect her. If he had thought about it more his demon would never be able to torture him with the memories pulsing beneath his irises even now.

"It never crossed my mind," Angel said simply, and tried to turn away.

"We did, didn't we," she said. It wasn't a question.

Her voice stopped him in his tracks, and she went on.

"We did. Did we . . . Angel, tell me. Tell me what we did. Please. I want to know."

"You don't," Angel said, turning to face her, his jaw clenching. "You told me you didn't." She opened her mouth, and he went on, his voice forced and hard, steam-rolling over her protests. "You asked, 'how can I live my life, knowing what we had'. Trust me," he ground out, "you don't want to know."

"It was that—that bad?" At the look on his face, she at last dropped her eyes. "Or I guess I mean . . . that good. Oh boy." She turned away to go on walking, blindly now. "I was really jonesing for another heartbreaking sewer talk."

Angel watched her go, thinking how lucky she was that she had only had to go through two of them. "So was I," he said softly, into the darkness, and turned to follow her.

* * *

Angel and Buffy returned to the group holed up in his office building in silence. They did not speak to each other alone again, and he very carefully avoided being near her or touching her. She, in return, seemed glad, the better off for it. It was just as well, he guessed. He might get to hold her—twice—when someone she knew died, but further than that they should not go. They could not.

They researched deep into the night, an odd crew: Giles, Buffy, Xander, Doyle, Willow, and Angel. For the most part, they didn't come up with anything useful, and so resolved to stay the night, still hoping to scare up some solution—or at least a revenge—over the weekend.

To Angel's infinite regret, Buffy slept in his bed, but luckily, she was sharing with Willow. He could just wash the sheets and pretend he'd never slept in that bed with her and that it hadn't ever been saturated with everything they had done that day that hadn't been. Doyle went home; Giles slept on the futon; Xander took the couch. That left the floor for Angel, which suited him just fine. He knew he would not sleep well that night anyway.

* * *

_To Be Continued . . .

* * *

_

_**Disclaimer**: Lines stolen from AtS 1.8 "I Will Remember You."_


	6. DAY THREE part i

Angel didn't want to wake up. He didn't want his senses to begin processing and not smell her, to open his eyes and not see her, to sit up and put his hand beside him and not feel her there, not even feel the evidence that she had been there at all. He lay there in the hazy place between sleeping and waking and wondered why it felt like Buffy had fallen asleep in his arms just last night, when last night hadn't even happened.

Technically though, it should have been last night, or was it the night before last? Anyway, it shouldn't have been two days ago, and Cordelia was dead.

He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about anything.

In Montana in the 1930s, he had met a Native American who had learned a technique that forced sleep onto the body. The Indian had used it to commune with his guardian spirits. Angel had learned the technique, thinking it would calm his fitful slumbers. After the first three times he had used the technique on but rare occasions. Angel had found out he didn't want to be visited by his guardian spirits. They were the same as his nightmares, and the nightmares were what made his sleep so restless in the first place.

He used it now, though, because memories of the day that wasn't and Cordelia's death at the same time was too much. Hopefully, his spirits would only include Cordelia. The memories of Buffy from that day were the stuff dreams were made of—not nightmares. He didn't think the spirits could twist them into something more damaging than the obliteration of those dreams already had. And so, he slept.

Twenty-five minutes later, he shot up in bed, groggy and aware that something was seriously wrong. This wasn't right. How had he ended up in his . . .

Raking his hand through his hair, Angel got out of bed. The covers fell away, and he realized he was naked. He'd gone to sleep—on the floor—in sweats and a wife-beater last night. He remembered now. But how had he gotten . . . He seriously doubted anyone would want to strip him—well, Buffy might but she . . .

She wasn't even here.

She'd gone to sleep with Willow in his bed last night, but she wasn't here. And Willow wasn't either—which was good, because waking up naked beside Willow would've been just plain weird. And Giles wasn't on the futon and Xander wasn't on the couch. It was as if they had never been here at all.

As if yesterday hadn't happened.

Angel jerked open a dresser drawer and pulled out some loose-fitting clothes. He almost didn't bother. As it was, he was tripping over himself to pull the garments on. He didn't even bother buttoning up the shirt by the time he was rushing up the stairs.

She was there, talking to Doyle, sitting next to him and chatting and smiling as if nothing had ever happened. Apparently, nothing had. Angel had never thought Cordelia looked more beautiful.

She stopped talking as she saw him, and Doyle turned to him, concern in his eyes. There was anxiety and criticism in Cordelia's, but—no death. No despair and no bliss, no resurrection. Just . . . Cordelia. Upturned lips and mole on her jaw-bone, doe eyes and perfect make-up. Cordelia.

Angel didn't like hugging people. Or, it wasn't that he didn't like it, but rather that the demon in him liked it too much. Buffy had been different, of course. Touching her had inflamed his vampiric senses, yes—but touching her had also inflamed his soul, filled it with so much hope and light that most of the time, it had been easy to subdue the demon. In fact, being with Buffy had pushed the demon down further than he was usually able to manage on his own. Touching her made him feel like a man, never a monster.

Not so with other humans. Feeling warm flesh and blood pumping under his hands spiked the bloodlust like nothing else could—except maybe the scent of blood itself—and it was better if he reminded himself of what he was and what he could never be by holding himself away from the human world, even from physical contact.

But seeing Cordelia whole and alive and in front of him stirred something rare in Angel, and he wanted desperately to touch her to make sure she was real. She and Doyle had stood, and he walked the remaining steps between them slowly. He touched her shoulder, and then found her pulse.

"Um, Angel? You're still Angel, right?"

"Cordelia. You're—you're—" Without trying to make sense of it, he pulled her to him for a brief moment, and then let go.

"Whoa, that was—" Cordelia stopped talking as he ran his hands over her arms, as he pulled her a little closer again to look over her shoulder at her back, as his hands moved to her waist and skimmed up her chest to her neck, to make sure it was unbroken. "Hey!" Cordelia snapped. "Hands off my—Angel, did you do it with—Buffy!—'s here . . . in town . . ."

Angel hastily stopped touching Cordelia and turned around. Buffy was standing in the door way, wearing the same skirt as yesterday and the same expression she had worn when she put the sword through his stomach—though this time she looked as if he had put it through hers. Angel glanced back at Cordelia, then back to Buffy. "She's alive," Angel said, by way of explanation.

"Of course she's alive," Cordelia said, swatting him and stepping away. "You were in Sunnydale these past three days so you could save her? Hello? And what's with the feel up? Have you been stroking the talking stick again? Because that's not all you were just strok—"

"This," Angel said, gesturing at Cordelia futilely, "this isn't—wasn't—it's not what you think."

Buffy backed up a step, looking more nauseated than anything else. "You actually think I can form a thought right now?"

"Buffy—"

Cordelia was looking from Buffy to Angel, and suddenly, her face twisted in revulsion and amusement. "Wait, you think I—"

"Can it, Cordelia," Angel said. He was just standing there, watching Buffy.

"I think," Buffy said, swallowing. "I think I'll just come back later." She waved hazily in Cordelia's direction and walked out of the office. Angel quickly followed.

"Oh great," he heard Cordelia say behind him. "Here comes Hurricane Buffy."

A tiny part of Angel that wasn't Angelus at all wondered why he'd been so glad Cordelia wasn't dead after all.

* * *

"Buffy," Angel said, sticking his hand into the shafts of sunlight streaming through the windows on the front door of the building. He ignored the burning flesh and sting of smoke in his nostrils and jerked the Slayer back, pinning her against the wall of the hallway so that they both stood in the shadows. "Buffy," he repeated, more gently. "You don't honestly think I . . . with Cordelia."

Buffy's eyes met his, searching his. "No," she said finally.

Angel blinked. "Good." He should have let her go, then, but somehow his hands could not stop holding her.

Buffy looked away again, and said suddenly, "I don't know. I don't . . . People do . . . crazy things on the rebound."

It was true, people did crazy things. But not him, and not . . . her? Angel's hands convulsed on her, his grip suddenly tightening. He wondered vaguely whether he was hurting her. People did crazy things. People. Buffy?

Abruptly, he let her go. She still refused to look at him, which told him almost as much as her eyes would have had she been able to meet his. "Yes, but . . . Cordelia?" he asked at last, softly.

"Well, I heard she works for you," Buffy said, shrugging, relaxing. "I mean, that's at least a little crazy, isn't it?"

Angel gave her a little more space. "Yeah," he said, raking a hand through his hair. "Yeah, it is." He paused. "She's good. She's different. You'd be surprised."

At last, Buffy met his eyes, and smiled. It was a resigned smile, an understanding smile, a smile he didn't remember high school Buffy having. It was a smile you smiled when you'd known the person in front of you all your life and you'd both just made a foolish error. "Better watch out saying she's good," she said at last. "Because apparently, previously unbeknownst to myself, I have the capacity to be a real hypocritical bitch when the jealous whim takes me."

Angel gave her a wry, half-smile back, but it didn't come as easy as he knew it looked. Hypocritical? Had it been hypocritical of her to think that he might be involved with Cordelia? Or had the hypocrisy been in being upset because of it? Because she had said people did crazy things . . . while on rebound.

It had only been a couple months. Had Buffy . . . Already?

The possibility of it made both the demon and the soul roar in jealousy within him, but the emotion that capped it, that burned through even hotter than both the demon and his own inner darkness could protest, was remorse. Had he really left her so . . . needy? If what he was reading from her responses was true . . .

Damn him, she was just a child, and sometimes she made it so easy to forget that. No—not a child, a young woman, he corrected himself. Of course she would want . . . Dammit, he had _left_ her so she could have a normal guy, a normal life—so she could be a normal teenager and have a normal college experience and have normal sex.

But . . . Already?

For the first time, looking at her standing there and realizing that she would throw herself into the life he'd left her so she could have—because Buffy never let herself be a victim of anyone, even of the man she loved—Angel doubted his motives. Hadn't he left expecting that she'd secretly spend her life waiting for him; hadn't part of him wanted her to pine away for him? Hadn't he secretly hoped that they would die without each other just to prove to the rest of the world that they should never be apart?

Angel went to touch her cheek, and then, remembering, dropped his hand. "It's alright," he said simply. "I get taken by the jealous whims too."

Buffy's smile widened, even the chagrin falling away now. She knew that it was going to be alright between them, and he knew he did want those things he had left Buffy so she could have. It just wasn't going to be easy. "Yeah, but you're right," Buffy was saying. "I mean . . . over Cordelia?"

Angel's lips quirked and he lifted a brow. "Xander?"

"Well, there _was_ that," Buffy ceded, rolling her eyes. "But I did dance the nasty with him. Cordelia . . . well, you only . . ."

"Copped a feel," Angel suggested.

"Yeah," Buffy said, her nose wrinkling. "Lots of them. With your shirt unbuttoned. Come to think of it, what _were _you doing?"

Suddenly, reality came crashing back down from wherever it went when he got to touch Buffy, and Angel glanced down at her skirt again. It was much easier to figure out this time. She wasn't the First Evil, and she wasn't just committing a fashion repetition faux pas. And if she was, Cordelia was alive to point it out to her, which meant, quite obviously . . . that today was yesterday. Again.

Angel sighed, leaning into the wall beside Buffy. "It's a long story," he said. "I think we need to—"

"Maybe _we _shouldn't," Buffy said quietly, taking a step away. "I mean, I only came to see you—"

"—To tell me face to face—" Angel began to finish for her, when a crashing of glass sent him dashing into his inner office.

He was seeing the events he hadn't seen yesterday play out in slow motion. Doyle was rushing into the office; Cordelia was running away. The Mohra was waving the sword wildly at Doyle, and his half-demon co-worker was . . . falling and hitting his head on a desk. Cordelia was screaming, turning around to rush back in—

And Angel was there, picking up his clock—

—hey, it'd worked before—

—and smashing it into the demon's forehead.

There was a flash of white light, and Buffy, in fighting stance beside him, dropped her fists, turned to him, and said, "That was unreal. How did you know how to kill it?"

Angel brought the clock down slowly and placed it on the desk. The face said nine o' three. "Like I said," he murmured, "it's a long story."

It was then that Cordelia screamed.

* * *

_To Be Continued . . ._ _**

* * *

Disclaimer:**_ _Lines stolen from AtS S1.8 "I Will Remember You" and S1.someteen "Sanctuary."_


	7. DAY THREE part ii

Doyle shook his head, snapping his spikes and green skin back beneath a façade of pleasant Irish pallor. He brushed himself off and stood up. "It got Doyle!" Cordelia shrieked, backing into a corner. "It possessed Doyle!"

Buffy looked up at Angel. "What was that you said about her?" Buffy asked him, gesturing toward Cordelia. Buffy's brow rose in amusement. "Something about how she was different?"

"Okay, no one else is freaking out here!" Cordelia shrilled. "Look at him!"

Buffy glanced at Doyle. "We're looking," she said, and then turned back to Angel. "I'm still waiting to be surprised."

"It's not her fault," Angel said, absently buttoning his shirt. "He didn't want to tell her."

"Tell me what?" Cordelia screeched. "Tell me what!"

"That I'm a demon," Doyle said simply, taking a step toward her.

"Sure, now you are, now that you're possessed you mean," Cordelia said petulantly. "Hey, back off!"

"Cordelia," Angel began, turning toward her.

Cordelia looked from Doyle to Angel, back to Doyle, then back to Buffy, who was watching her display with mild amusement. Cordelia made a face and stopped cowering. "So what in the heck are you?" she demanded, stepping toward Doyle.

"I'm . . ." Doyle took a step toward her. "I'm a demon."

"Yeah, okay, so Cordelia's dim," Cordelia said, rolling her eyes. "Everyone laugh at Cordelia, because everyone's got it figured out but her. I _got_ that part. I meant like . . ." She cast about for what she had meant, because she hadn't known what she meant, not at all.

Angel watched Doyle with a twinge of pity and bittersweet nostalgia. He remembered kissing Buffy for the first time—remembered seeing her face after he'd changed. He desperately wanted to look at her to see if she was remembering too, but he already knew she was. Looking at her would only make it worse.

"Since when?" Cordelia demanded impatiently, stepping toward Doyle again.

"Since I was born," Doyle said, taking a step too, "but it didn't manifest until I was twenty-one.'

"He's only half-demon," Angel supplied quietly.

Cordelia took another step, and slapped Doyle across the face.

"Hey!" Buffy said, starting to step forward. Angel grabbed her wrist to stop her. He knew Cordelia and Doyle—and their constant bickering—better than she did. And he knew that it wasn't a good idea to interrupt Cordelia when she was on a tirade.

"What was that for?" Doyle demanded, taking his hand away from his face.

"Why didn't you tell me that you were half demon?" Cordelia raged. "How dare you keep secrets from me!"

"I wanted to tell you," Doyle confessed, blue eyes liquid and pleading. "I was afraid. I thought if I did, you'd reject me."

"Oh," Buffy breathed, so quietly that only Angel heard. Belatedly, Angel realized that his hand was still on Buffy's, and that her fingers were interlacing with his, her hot little hand filling his cool one. "Maybe we should . . ." she breathed, and began to inch them around toward the door.

It wasn't meant to be. Cordelia was not above having a scene in front of an audience, and she was blocking the exit. "I've rejected you way before now!" she was proclaiming into Doyle's face. "So, you're half demon," she went on. "Big whoop! I can't believe you'd think I'd care about that. I mean, I work for a vampire! Hello?"

"It's true," Doyle said, glancing at Angel uncertainly. "I just . . ."

"What do you think I am, superficial? And I hear you snickering, Buffy," Cordelia said, whirling on the Slayer and the vampire standing hand in hand a couple feet away. Buffy hastily dropped Angel's hand and swallowed her smile.

"Look," Doyle said, holding up his hands. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but maybe right now there are more important things . . ." He gestured to the broken glass on the office floor.

Angel looked at Cordelia hesitantly. "And there's something I need to tell—" he began.

"Don't try to change the subject," Cordelia interrupted, jabbing her finger at Doyle's chest. "So, you're half demon. That's so far down the list, way under 'short' and 'poor'! Is there anything else I should know?"

Doyle looked at Angel and shrugged his shoulders. "The half-demon thing is pretty much my big secret," he said, turning back to Cordelia.

"Good," Cordelia snapped. "That's out. It's done." For the first time, Cordelia turned and seemed embarrassed by Angel and Buffy's presence. She scowled at them, and then leaned to whisper something in Doyle's ear.

"Yeah?" Doyle asked aloud, leaning back to look at her, his bright eyes startled.

Beside him, Angel felt Buffy stiffen. She sucked in a breath and turned away, putting space between her and Angel. Cordelia was smiling beatifically, and Doyle was taking her hands. When Doyle spoke, his voice was low, but everyone in the room knew what he was asking, and Angel suddenly knew why Buffy had moved away from him.

When Doyle's voice lifted up to end his question, Cordelia's eyes positively shone. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and said, loudly, "Maybe. I'll think about it."

Doyle froze for a moment, and then he threw his head back and laughed. Cordelia laughed too.

Angel and Buffy stood stoically, the space a living thing between them. "Great, now that that's done," Angel said coldly, "I have to tell you guys something. Something very . . . weird is going on."

* * *

Angel, learning from past mistakes, didn't begin with what Buffy had titled "the shirt part." He began with coming back from Sunnydale, and for the time being, left out the part about turning human, seeing the Oracles, and turning back the day. Then he told them how the day had passed, but that when he had awakened the next morning, it was the same day. When Angel explained what the Mohra had done to Cordelia, Doyle looked at her, and his hand had slipped over hers. They were sitting on the couch together—probably sitting closer than entirely necessarily. "I died?" Cordelia squeaked.

"Yes," Angel said, a little hoarsely. Buffy stood, pulling out her chair. Angel stopped his pacing, looked at her thankfully, and sat down heavily. It didn't help things that, since there wasn't anywhere to sit that wasn't already taken, Buffy perched herself on the desk beside him.

"Then what happened?" Buffy prodded. "I mean, did we figure out why the day repeated—and why only you remembered it? Did we get it to repeat again? Is . . ." Her eyes widened. "Is today the same as yesterday for you?"

Angel nodded. "After Cordelia died you called Giles and the rest of your Sunnydale friends," he explained.

"That's her Watcher," Cordelia explained to Doyle in a loud stage whisper. "Buffy has a whole slew of Scoobies that help her out." She paused and added in an even more exaggerated whisper, "I was so the Daphne of that group. You know, the hot one."

"Scoobies?" Doyle asked incredulously.

Angel ignored them. "They came and we tried . . . to figure out how to turn back time." He paused. "Giles also had this theory . . ."

"What?" Buffy coaxed.

"That I'm crazy," Angel said, his voice low. "That something is wrong with me. That none of this actually happened, that time didn't repeat itself. That something—or someone—is giving me false memories."

"That's ridiculous," Buffy said promptly. "You're not crazy."

"But why?" Doyle asked. "Why would anyone give you memories of this specific day over and over again?"

"I'm not sure," Angel said, running a hand through his hair again. It felt weird not having it washed. He had rushed upstairs so fast to see if the day really had repeated itself and if Cordelia was really alive that he hadn't had time to fix it. Despite the dirt he dealt in everyday, it felt uncomfortable to be so—unkempt. It reminded him of the time right after. . . coming out of Hell, and that reminded him of . . . He steadfastly didn't glance over at Buffy, who so easily fed him so many memories.

_I'll never forget._

The echo was growing fainter and fainter.

"Angel?" Buffy asked quietly.

"Willow had an idea," he said, standing up again so he could pace.

"Velma," Cordelia informed Doyle with a hiss.

"I don't get it," Doyle said. "Which one was Buffy?"

"Duh. Scooby."

"The dog?"

"Guys. Enough," Buffy reprimanded, in that voice that even Giles had never dared disobey, even in the middle of their more intense research/brainstorm sessions. "What was Willow's idea?" Buffy asked, turning back to Angel.

"Well, it doesn't really apply now, since Cordelia's not dead," Angel said, eyes moving around the office to look anywhere but at Buffy. "But she said maybe my memories had been planted in order to give us the solution of how to bring Cordelia back—"

"So you guys were really sad I died, huh?" Cordelia interrupted cheerfully.

Angel and Buffy's heads snapped to glare at her. Even Doyle had the grace to stare at her with annoyance. "Devastated," Angel muttered, his voice dripping sarcasm.

"Look, cut me a little slack," Cordelia protested. "I did die!"

"Not today," Buffy said, and put her feet in the office chair, her elbows on her knees. "What was there in your memories of the repeated days that would've saved Cordelia?" Buffy asked. "I mean, did Willow figure anything out from anything you remembered?"

"Well . . . Yes," Angel said, looking down. "I . . . Haven't told you guys everything."

"Okay, didn't I just say like ten minutes ago that secrets are bad?" Wrinkling her nose, Cordelia removed her hand from Doyle's and glared at him.

"Well, it's obviously not a secret," Buffy said, annoyed, "since he's going to tell us." She turned wide eyes on Angel. "You are . . . going to tell us, aren't you?"

"Yes." Angel took a deep breath he didn't need. "The first time the Mohra demon attacked, it got away. I tracked it; I killed it; some of its blood mixed with mine," Angel said, turning to Doyle. "It made me mortal."

There was a weighty silence.

"I don't get it," Cordelia said suddenly. "I mean, Angel faces death all the time, just like normal guys face waffles and French fries. It's something he faces every day like . . . breakfast." Cordelia made a face. "Are you guys hungry? Doyle, I thought I told you to get us some doughnuts."

"It's not that he's mortal as in he's going to die," Doyle told Cordelia. He turned his piercing eyes onto Angel. "It's that he _can_ die."

"Oh. Well, duh, I got that part. So, he turned human. What's the big?" Cordelia said. "I want doughnuts."

Angel turned away. "The Mohra came back to life. Buffy killed it—again," Angel said, not making the mistake of looking at her at all this time, "but I realized I wasn't much good to anyone as a . . . an . . . average Joe. I . . . don't belong to myself," Angel said, desperately hoping Buffy would understand. He didn't want another conversation in which she demanded to know why he didn't want her any more, in which he couldn't stop himself from telling her he did want her, more than he could bear. "We belong to the world, fighting," Angel said, turning to her at last. "So, I went to the Oracles—"

"Hold on man," Doyle interrupted, putting out a hand. "The Oracles?"

"Yeah," Angel said. "You took me."

"I think I'd remember a trip to the netherworld of eternal watching. That's just not something that happens every day," Doyle said skeptically.

"Neither is me dying," Cordelia said. "This happened on one of the repeated days no one but nutso Angel over there remembers."

"He's not nutso," Buffy said, speaking up for the first time since Angel had said he had turned mortal. "Are you?" she asked, turning to him.

Angel didn't look at her, and didn't answer.

"So, you went to the Oracles," Doyle encouraged.

"I asked them to turn back the clock, as though that day had never happened," Angel went on. "The Powers That Be swallowed the day. Folded time. They returned me to the very moment the Mohra jumped through the window, so I could kill it before its blood mixed with mine."

"But . . . " Doyle asked. "If they sent you back, and you knew the demon was coming—Why didn't you kill it? Why would you let it . . ."

"Kill Cordelia?" Angel asked quietly, looking at Doyle, accepting the guilt for something that, apparently, hadn't even happened. "That's just it. I did kill it. Buffy left. You and Cordelia were safe. We lived out the rest of the day, and we all went to sleep. But when I woke up the next morning, it was the same day."

"The day I died," Cordelia said.

"The day you died," Angel echoed lowly.

"Yesterday," Doyle said uncertainly, as if seeking confirmation.

Angel flicked a glance at him. "Today."

"This is confusing," Cordelia said.

"Makes sense to me," Buffy said suddenly. "Today's the same day. The Powers That Be made a mistake. They went to turn back the day and just kept turning it back, over and over."

"That's what we thought yesterday," Angel said, "except that I thought it was just a tiny fluke. I never expected to be repeating today yet again."

"Yesterday," Doyle corrected.

"Look, whatever," Cordelia said, standing up and waving her arm. "We need to figure out what's going on. We also need doughnuts and some serious caffeination."

"Right," Buffy agreed, standing up also. "I can live with that. Cordelia and . . . Doyle? Caffeine and sugar detail. Angel, you're with me."

"Where are you guys going?" Doyle demanded.

"To visit the Powers That Be."

_

* * *

To Be Continued . . .

* * *

__**Disclaimer: **Lines stolen from AtS S1.8 "I Will Remember You," 1.9 "Heroes," and 1.22 "To Shanshu in L.A."_


	8. DAY THREE part iii

"Wait, who died, came back to life, and put you in charge?" Cordelia said, crossing her arms over her chest and staring Buffy down. "This is Angel's turf. He's the one who orders us around."

Buffy raised a brow and looked to Angel for help. Angel avoided her eyes. "Actually," he began.

"I knew it!" Cordelia exploded. "I knew she was just going to walk right in here and knock you over with a feather. Come on, Angel, this is your town. You can't just—"

"Shut up, Cordelia," Angel snapped, and, surprisingly, she shut up. "This isn't about who's in control, or who's town this is," he said, looking at the three quiet faces in front of him. His eyes narrowed on Cordelia. "You died. You have no . . ." He paused, trying to get his bearings. "You can have no idea what that was like."

"Hey, I was the one who died," Cordelia said, but she muttered it under her breath, and again fell silent.

"This isn't my idea of a good time," Angel said, his voice grim. "I don't want to have to live this day again."

At last, because he couldn't help it, his eyes wandered to Buffy. He was lying, he knew. A little voice inside of him was telling him that if he could live it three times, four, maybe he'd live it again tomorrow—and the next day and the next. And no tomorrow meant no consequences. And no consequences meant it didn't matter if he let the Mohra demon make him mortal, didn't matter how many days he spent with Buffy—because the next day he would always wake up a vampire again.

He could have done it today. He could have sliced the Mohra up, mixed blood, then hit the jewel and sent the bastard into the white light. He and Buffy could be downstairs right now. There were plenty of things they hadn't done that day he'd thought of doing once he turned human. In front of the mirror, for one thing. Seeing himself, seeing himself touch her, watching himself pushing into her, watching his own face as she made him come apart inside of her—

Not quite so good as kissing her in sunlight, having her fall asleep beside him, or hearing her say those three beautiful words, but maybe it was fourth on the list of things to do when he turned human. Well, there was the ice cream; he could go for that again. But there was also kneeling in front of her with his face between her—maybe the mirror wasn't fourth.

"Angel?"

"What?" His mouth was dry. He swallowed, and looked around.

"You were telling us how serious this is," Buffy said gently.

"Yeah, and then you went off into la-la land," Cordelia mumbled out of the side of her mouth.

"Yeah. Right." Angel turned to Buffy. "I don't think seeing the Oracles will help."

"You heard what he said," Buffy told Cordelia, and then she tilted her head to Angel. "Let's—What did you say?"

"Yeah, run that by us again," Cordelia said, smirking triumphantly.

"I went to the Oracles on the day Cordelia died," Angel explained. "They didn't know what I was talking about."

"Are you saying the Powers That Be folded time so much that even the Oracles couldn't remember they folded time?" Buffy asked.

"That doesn't sound right," Doyle volunteered. "The Oracles are supposed to be connected to the Powers That Be. They're our channel. They would know."

"Not if they screwed up," Buffy replied, looking to Angel for confirmation. "If this day thing is happening to Angel because the Powers folded time all wrong, then maybe the Oracles so confuzzled they didn't even know They did it wrong." She paused. "All the more reason to go see them, find out what they know."

Angel repressed an annoyed sigh. "That's what you said last time."

"When?" Cordelia asked.

"I'm guessing yesterday," Doyle said.

"Oh," Buffy said, scowling. "I guess it makes sense that I would have the same plan today as I did . . . today." Her frown deepened, and she looked at Angel. "Did we go?"

"Yeah. We couldn't get in. The Gateway wouldn't open up."

"Could be 'cause you'd already gone that day, and they knew what you were going to ask," Doyle guessed.

"That's what you said last time," Angel agreed.

Doyle shrugged. "They don't really like mortal beings summoning them to do petty favors."

"Hey, bringing me back to life isn't petty," Cordelia said.

"The Oracles saw it that way," Angel said. "They said I was being self-serving."

"Yeah right," Cordelia fired. "Mr. Sacrifice? Self-serving? Please. You don't even have a life because all you do is save other people's. Those guys don't know you at all."

Buffy was looking at Angel, her expression illegible. "I agree. They don't know you," she said softly, looking him up and down. "And they don't know me. I want to talk to them."

Angel sighed. "Okay. We have to go through the sewers."

"Where are these Oracles, anyway?" Cordelia asked.

"Under the post office," Angel answered.

"Huh?"

"It makes sense when you think about it," Doyle replied.

Angel winced.

"You okay?" Buffy asked, almost reaching out to touch him but thinking better of it.

"I never knew déjà vu could be this . . . annoying," Angel replied, and headed for the stairs.

* * *

Angel and Buffy were once again strolling through the sewers, and Angel once again felt the strange, slightly cold chill across the back of his neck—the feeling that they were being watched. He kept an eye out, but Buffy didn't seem to notice anything strange, and he couldn't put his finger on the feeling.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" Buffy said at last, into the darkness.

Angel didn't look at her. "No," he said softly. "And don't say anything about fantasies."

"I wasn't—" Buffy began, then cut herself off. She tilted her head, her gaze turning inward, introspective. "Wait," she said, confused. "I was. How did you . . . Oh. Gotcha. We had this conversation before."

"Yes."

"How about when you actually were human? Did we have it then?"

"Yes." He paused. "Before."

"Before what?"

"You were going to ask if we had it before or after I got the Powers to turn me into a vampire again."

Buffy scowled, looking at the ground, scuffing her feet. "So I knew you were human. I talked to you when you were . . . and we didn't—we . . ." She stopped walking. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. "You didn't—"

"I wanted you," Angel said quickly, turning back to her. "Don't say that."

"But you," she started, looking down, looking anywhere but at him to contain the tears threatening in her eyes. "You decided on the mature plan, didn't you. I know you, always with the—"

"Maturity," Angel finished for her. "But then again, I've never been very mature when it comes to you, have I, Buffy," he said. It was not a question; he did not wait for an answer. He turned from her to continue on through the sewers.

She grabbed his arm, her eyes filled with a strange mixture of horror and hope. "Angel—you're saying you—I—we . . . Tell me. Please, tell me what we—"

He flicked his gaze down to where her fingers gripped the black sleeve of his coat, slender and golden in the darkness. Then his eyes met hers, and he said simply, shortly: "Don't."

She tugged on his arm. "But I want—"

"You don't want to know," he said, more harshly than he meant to, jerking himself free of her grasp. "Trust yourself, Buffy; you told me before that you wouldn't be able to go on with your life if you knew. You don't want to know now."

He saw her turning that over, considering when she might have told him such a thing. Realizing she hadn't been in the position to make the decision he had made because she was still young enough to think she would only ever find happiness with him. Realizing he had made that decision when she couldn't. "You . . . you made the decision for me," she breathed. "Again."

His voice gentled at the shock and accusation in her voice. He spread his hands. "I couldn't tell you. I wasn't sure if I could do it if I spent another . . . Buffy, another minute with you."

She covered her mouth and turned away, taking several deep breaths to swallow her sobs—her tears, her heart. "Gee," she said after several long moments, her voice attempting to be bright. She made a small choking sound, but, after another minute or so, tried again. "Gee," she said, "I was really jonesing for another heart-breaking sewer conversation." When she turned back to him, her eyes were dry.

"Me too," he said briefly, and started making his way through the sewers again.

After a moment, she followed him. He could sense her using the silence to calm herself, to try to accept that all that he had said had happened, but that it would not happen again. For her, at least. "How many is it, for you?" she asked suddenly, her tone suspicious.

"The fourth, I think," Angel replied, and gave her a wry half-smile. It used to do the trick, all those uncomfortable moments last year. Whenever they got too close, whenever she accidentally touched him, whenever she saw that he was aroused just by being around her and that there was nothing on this earth either of them dared do about it, he could tell her everything was going to be alright. He never had to use words with her—good, because he didn't like speeches and always said the wrong thing anyway—he just had to smile, a little wry, a little teasing, and a little—unbeknownst to him—long-suffering, and she knew that they would both survive it.

He saw her register that smile, and, after several moments, saw her valiantly give him a little smile back. "I definitely got the better end of this bargain," she said at last, her voice light. "When the Powers That Be decide to screw with you again, remember to tell Them you don't know me."

Angel almost laughed. "Tell Them yourself. We're here."

* * *

_To Be Continued . . .

* * *

_

_**Disclaimer: **Lines stolen from AtS S1.8 "I Will Remember You."_


	9. DAY THREE part iv

**Please read the note at the end; it's long, but it's kind of important.**

* * *

"Come before us, lower beings," a male voice intoned.

"Lower beings?" Buffy repeated incredulously out of the side of her mouth. "High and mighty, much?"

Angel took off his watch and threw it to the female. She caught it and looked at it wonderingly. "I brought you this," he told her.

"Angel," Buffy hissed, looking uncertainly at the Oracles. "That's just a watch."

"I like time," the female replied, snapping her big blue eyes up to look peer at Buffy. Then she smiled a little secret smile and looked back down at the watch. "There is so little and so much of it."

Buffy grimaced and took a step forward. "I think there's a little too much of it all the sudden," she said. "Angel's been living the same day over and over again. We were wondering if you could help."

"Each day is always occurring," the female replied, staring at the watch and shrugging.

For a moment, Buffy was silent. "Look," she said finally. "We know we're mortals or lower beings or whatever other derogatory name you want to give us. We're not equipped to understand your paradoxes, and you know it. So, why don't you just give us the stitch without all the mumbo jumbo?"

"The Slayer," the male said, almost wonderingly.

"In the flesh," Buffy quipped. Then she turned to Angel, nose wrinkling. "Or, are we flesh here? I feel fleshy."

"She speaks with insolence," the woman said, turning to her male counterpart.

The man's great blue eyes didn't leave Buffy. Instead, they looked her over with an expression like—like compassion. Angel could see it was making Buffy extremely anxious. "Soon she will understand," the man announced, after a moment.

"Soon?" Buffy echoed, her face blank.

"All mortal beings come to understand, in time. That is the definition of mortality."

"Yes," Buffy replied, "but—soon?"

"No," Angel said, his voice hard. He took Buffy by the elbow and pulled her closer to him, as if to put himself between her and the Oracles, her and the light at the end of that long hallway. "It won't happen," he ground out. "I won't let it."

The female raised a brow and dropped it, the subtle equivalent of a shrug. "It is not our place to grant life or death. Nor is it yours."

"If she's in trouble," Angel growled, "I'll know. I'll feel it. Do you think I could be anywhere on this Earth and let her die?"

"Angel," Buffy said softly, and put her hand on his shoulder.

"No," he snarled. "I gave up—everything—for this. They can't—"

"Angel," Buffy repeated firmly, though gently. "This isn't what we're here to see them about."

He finally dropped his eyes to hers, his gaze darting over her, taking in the fact that he still held her elbow in a bruising grip. He forced himself to let go, watching the red blossom on her skin from where his fingers had pressed. He saw the blush not coming, the golden skin gray and lifeless. He saw one of his deepest darkest fears play out before him—her beloved, changeable eyes fazing into yellow, her small, piquant brow bulging and growing ridges, her teeth elongating into fangs. He saw Buffy dying, and saw in that revelation the possibility of Buffy coming back to life in the sickest way possible. "I won't let it happen," he repeated. "I won't."

"Of course," Buffy replied softly. "I won't either."

"Buffy." Her name was a groan, an ache, a prayer and a plea.

"Angel," she replied simply.

"Perhaps you should save your poignant moments for a suitable setting," a male voice said dryly.

"Perhaps you should save your revelations for whenever I come by to chat," Buffy snapped, "instead of when I come to you for help. This is about Angel."

The male frowned, but the female turned her golden head to look Angel up and down. "The auguries have proven false, brother," she said at last, eyes still on the Angel.

The male looked quickly from the female to Angel. His eyes widened slightly as he took in the vampire, as if he saw something that neither Buffy nor Angel could see. "He will remain a warrior," he said, sounding mildly interested.

"For the time being," the female intoned, her voice rife with self-satisfaction.

There was a small, somewhat awkward silence. "What do you mean, for the time being?" Buffy demanded abruptly, suspiciously.

"Is this a chat?" the male replied. His voice was cool.

"Yes, it's a chat," she said impatiently. "See, we're chatting. What do you mean by he's only a warrior for the time being? Will he . . .?" She trailed off, swallowing hard. Angel could feel her hand on his arm. He wasn't sure when or how it got there, but he felt her fingers convulse into his muscles, and he wondered whether she was seeking his strength or trying to give him her own.

"Only the Powers That Be are eternal," the female said finally.

"I tire of this 'chat,'" the male said, sounding bored. "We are not fortune-tellers. If you have come to ask us questions about your respective futures—"

"We haven't," Angel interjected hurriedly. "The Slayer told you why we're here. I keep experiencing the same day over and over again."

"This is none of our concern."

"But you folded time," Buffy said. "Surely this has something to do with that. You swallowed a day, and now it's all topsy-turvy-repeat-day."

"Temporal folds are not to indulge at the whims of lower beings," the male said.

"But you already did it," Buffy pointed out, scowling.

"The events of which you speak have, to put it in the inaccurate terms more suited to your understanding—" The male began, but Angel cut him off.

"No place on our time line," he finished for him. "The events are in the fourth dimension, but I can't experience them with my lower being brain. Or something like that," Angel said, remembering what the Oracles had told him before.

The Oracles were silent for several long moments. "This is true," the male said at last.

"You have been here to ask for our help on one of your previous days," the female suggested.

"Yes."

She nodded. "For ones such as we, this day has happened an infinite number of times and never. But for a lower being such as this," she went on, glancing at her brother Oracle, "the experience should register singularly, a point in the mortal reckoning of time." She turned back to Angel. "What you say is true. Time is fluctuating within your being."

"So glad you believe us now," Buffy said irritably.

"We know it's true," Angel said. "What we don't know is why it's happening or what we can do to fix it."

"If this day has occurred in consecution on your timeline, you have already asked these questions."

"And you have heard our reply," the male intoned, still bored.

"This is not our concern." The female.

"Seek answers elsewhere." The male.

Then the Oracles' arms rose simultaneously, and Angel and Buffy felt their inner organs jerk and their skins follow suit, back into the cave under the post office.

"Well, that went well," said Buffy, standing up and dusting herself off. "Next time I'm doing a really hard crossword puzzle, remind me to call on them. They have such easy answers to everything."

"You do crossword puzzles?" Angel asked, rubbing the back of his head.

"Sure. Eight-letter word, describes Buffy and Angel."

Romantic. Accursed. Desirous. Separate. Headlong. Did "turned on" count? How about "done for"? That was seven letters. Truelove. Destined. Finished. "Hopeless?" he said at last.

She looked as if someone had just pinched her. "I was going for 'warriors'," she said, turning away, "but I guess that works too."

"I meant—" He reached out a hand for her and then curled his fingers back on themselves. He followed her as she walked out of the caves and back into the sewers. Swallowing thickly, he said, "I meant because of the Oracles. Hopeless as in helpless. As in they won't help us. The Oracles, I mean."

She gave him a tiny half-smile, wry, but understanding. "I know what you meant. You just have a way of . . . putting things into perspective."

"Yes," he said. He didn't look at her.

She was silent for a while, then: "I understand. Why you did it." The moments stretched between them, and then, because she knew he wouldn't ask her to clarify, she did it anyway. "I understand why you chose being a superhero over a regular Joe, and I understand why you didn't discuss it with me before hand. And whatever I said at the time, I'm sorry. If I was unfair." She paused and scowled. "Was I unfair?"

Angel grimaced, still not looking at her. His hand clenched and unclenched at his side. "You were . . . You were . . . You understood then, too. You didn't want to, but you did. You were perfect."

"Oh," she said blankly, a little surprised. "Well, go me." She scuffed her shoes and sneaked a glance at him. "It was just . . . hearing what they said. About . . . you dying, I mean. And me. It suddenly seemed so simple. I would separate us for eternity if it meant I could keep you safe."

"But can we?" Angel replied suddenly, stopping and turning to face her. "Can I really keep you from—does it mean _any_thing that we—" Angel's eyes sidled away. When they came back to her, his jaw was set and his voice was tight. "Do we really have to talk about this?"

Her brow wrinkled, and she looked thoughtful. "I should go home," she said finally.

_

* * *

To Be Continued . . . **

* * *

**_

_**A/N 1:**_ _The next chapter will deal with themes relating to non-consensual sex, so I'm changing the rating of the whole fic to M, meaning: 1) This fic won't show up on the default main page for this fandom (I'm saying this because I always forget the default is K-T and then wonder where the fics I've been following are), and 2) the M-rated content is simply thoughts in Angel's head; i.e, it's not explicit (and it might not even be M-worthy)—but please do not read if you don't know what the word 'necrophilia' means ;o)_

_**A/N 2**: Around chapter 30, this fic will become NC-17 (for explicit sex and a little violence) and will be moved to my livejournal. Just wanted to warn you in case you don't go in for that kind of thing; I wouldn't want anyone to get caught up in this fic and then be disappointed by some of the turns it takes._

_**A/N 3:** A couple people have wondered about whether the end is in sight. I just wanted to take this moment to say that this fic is very, very long, and Angel lives this day many, many times. I also wanted to thank everyone who's been reading. When I first got the idea for this fic it was going to be very short. Instead, these first two days came out long and tedious, and I'm afraid things may feel repetitive and annoying. Still, I have tried to vary each day from the next as much as possible, so thanks if you're sticking with this._

_**A/N 4:** I had to cut this chapter off in an awkward place or else it would have been too long. So, apologies for the abruptness._

_**

* * *

Disclaimer:**_ _Lines stolen from AtS S1.8 "I Will Remember You" and 9, "Heroes."_


	10. DAY THREE part v

"I mean," Buffy went on, "I only came to see you—"

"To tell me face to face not to see you face to face," Angel finished for her. He nodded, and began to walk again.

She walked too, looking up at him. She was smiling a little, a tiny, suppressed smile, the one that was always determined to shed a little light on all his dark places, even when she was in darkness too. "There's a fly in that logic ointment, somewhere," she said, her voice gently teasing.

He looked down at her, and found himself almost smiling back. "There always is, in your logic," he said, his voice a little too warm. He should have known. He'd learned about that smile long ago. Acknowledging it meant he was going to smile too, and then he was going to say something affectionate, and then they were going to end up having another heart-breaking sewer talk. That would make this the second in one trip.

"My logic?" Buffy squeaked, feigning offense. "You're the one who said . . . oh. I gotcha. I'm the one who said it, aren't I?" Suppressed-tiny-smile again, bigger this time.

Angel looked away. "Yes."

"It's no fun," she said. "Me being predictable."

"You aren't," he said, an immediately slammed his teeth together. Why did she have to make it so easy to love her?

"That's good," she said, satisfied, nodding. They kept walking, Buffy scudding her shoes. She put her hands in her pockets. She'd changed once again into the he-remembered-ripping-it-off-her outfit. He liked anything that Buffy wore—especially when it was red—but he was a very sense-oriented being, and not just because he was a vampire. He noticed the way clothes looked on people, the way they draped, the way the colors fit or didn't fit. Most of all, he was tactile, he noticed the way fabric felt, and it was important to him, in an unconscious area of his brain. And there were so many sense-memories tied into what she was wearing now that it was driving all those senses crazy.

He hadn't known before that he worked that way, that just what she wore could do this to him. He'd known red turned him on, and that he liked it when her legs showed, and liked it even more when her neck was covered—because that part was private; that part was personal; that part was his—but he hadn't known that memory could be imbued in fabrics like this, that he would look at her and remember . . .

_I'll never forget . . ._

Maybe it was hereditary. In his genes. His father had been silk merchant—He didn't know. He didn't think about his father and he didn't consciously dwell on what people wore. But with Buffy, unused corners of his brain put her in different colors for different moods, different fabrics for different times. If she had worn that sexy tan little camisole she'd worn in the rain that day—their first time—their only time, he reminded himself—if she'd worn that again—

He would have raped her.

Angel wished there was a physical way to manifest the pain of that thought. He desperately wanted to want to throw up. Instead all he could do was swallow a mad laugh, and repress the imagined images flooding him of him raping her after all.

"So," Buffy said again into the darkness. "Was I good?"

A sound, very much like the whine of a wounded animal, almost escaped him, but Angel jerked himself into the present and swallowed it.

"Angel?" she asked. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he answered flatly. "Do you get the feeling that something's following us?"

Buffy kept walking, but the rest of her went still, listening. "No," she said, after several moments. "Should I?"

"I don't know," Angel said. "We should keep our eyes open."

It wasn't as if he had never considered raping her before. His wildness after his return from Hell—especially after he'd remembered how to speak again and had said Buffy's name—had owed something to what it felt like to lose his soul and fear of what had happened. He hadn't done it—but it didn't mean he hadn't wanted to.

He liked rape. He liked innocent young girls best, but women did the trick too, and boys, and men. Animals, not so much, but corpses could be fun if there was an innocent relation nearby to watch the gruesome violation of the dead body of someone she had loved. Yes, he liked it well enough, but rape was—well, blasé. It was coarse, rather vulgar; taken by itself, there wasn't anything artistic about it, nothing unpredictable, nothing that really sang creativity.

What he had done to souls like Drusilla were far more pleasing. It was only toward the end, only a few weeks before he'd turned her, that he'd raped her. For all intents and purposes, he'd been inside her months before he'd ever touched her. The rape itself—or rapes, he guessed—had only been one long, sweet climax to a year-long foreplay. When he finally took her, he'd had her so twisted he'd convinced her he was alternately Lucifer, Gabriel, Jesus, Joseph, and the Holy Ghost violating her, and it had been so much fun to let her think sometimes that she was the Virgin Mother Mary, even while he took her. He'd twisted her enough so that she almost believed it—at the same time believing she was the Devil's bride and child.

That was what he had wanted to do with Buffy—except for the Christian part, because that wasn't the way to get inside her. The way to get inside her was through the man she loved—and fuck, but Angel had learned that, hadn't he? She'd been a virgin, but she'd had muscles he'd never even—

Wearily, Angel pushed the thoughts away. No, it wasn't as if he had never considered raping Buffy, but just thinking about it brought a darkness roaring within him, and rest of him revolting, because the tiny, scared little voice at the root of him told him that the reason he could have wanted it when he hadn't had a soul was because that darkness was already within his human soul, even before he was turned. He was just a man—one man, who wanted to see the woman he loved more than anything face down, legs spread, hating him while he violated her until she bled and then again until she could bleed no more.

"Did I do a good job explaining why it wasn't so good for you to come to my—to Sunnydale?" Buffy asked, startling Angel so much he almost flinched. This, he guessed, was what she had been asking when she'd asked whether she had been good. Her voice dropped a little, chagrined. "The way you told Cordelia—about how this wasn't about who's town was who's . . ." She glanced up at him and shrugged, her nose scrunching. "You sounded a little ticked. Since the general plan was to strut into your office and tell you to stay out of my town I wondered whether I . . . did that."

"Sort of," Angel said.

"I didn't mean to peeve you," she said softly.

"You didn't," Angel replied, peering down at her. "You were . . . very mature. Wise."

"I was wise?" Buffy seemed to perk up a little. "Really? What did I say?"

It pleased him that he could be walking beside her thinking about what it would be like to rape her and she could just walk there, trusting him completely, golden-haired and beautiful and—and cute. That was one of the things he liked about Buffy; she was just—cute. There was no other word for it. They could banter and tease and so much of the time, when he was with her, he could forget that he secretly wanted to do terrible things to her. "You said it, wise one," Angel said, smirking down at her. "Shouldn't you know?"

"Oh come on," she said, giggling. "This isn't fair. You know stuff I did that I don't know about."

He knew plenty of stuff she'd done that she didn't know about, Angel realized suddenly. She'd licked ice cream off of him and watched the sun set with him and come panting his name about six or seven times. Angel swallowed thickly and looked away. "You said when I was near you you felt it. And it threw you."

"Oh." Her voice was small, and the laughter was gone.

Angel looked around the dark sewer, memories of the day and dark desires he didn't want to face boiling to the surface. "Perfect reason for me to stay away," he informed her, voice low.

Another good reason to stay away was that a tiny part of him that was still running over scenarios of how he might have raped her, of all those missed chances, of how he would make sure to do it if he ever got free again. Angel had never told her that a large part of the reason he had left was because when she was near him, the curse that held his soul in place would be threatened whether she was willing or not.

Add to that the fact that if he could get away, be someone without her—though he hadn't been anyone, until he'd first seen her—maybe he could discover enough of himself to learn how to live in peace with himself. No matter how much older or more experienced he was, when Buffy was near him, he leaned on her. He expected things to be alright, because she was there. He didn't bother with introspection, with looking inside himself, with building himself up, because his better half was there. He lived for her, when he was with her. One day, though, that could crack him just as easily as perfect happiness had, and Buffy would learn that she had only fallen in love with half a man, that he was nothing without her, had been nothing. He'd needed the time, the space, to fight his inner demons—and yes, there was more than just the big one—on his own, and leaving Buffy had a lot to do with that.

Why then was he doomed to repeat the day she had come into his life again to tell him to stay out of her life? Why then did he have to remember how much he loved her every time he looked at her? Why did he have to remember, when no one else did? And why did he have to be the one to push her away, every time?

When would it be over?

* * *

When they got back, Buffy called Giles. She claimed that if there was anything "apocalypsey" going on, she should stick around, but otherwise, she planned to spend the rest of the day and night with her dad.

Giles was of no more help today than he had been on the previous iteration of today. He did remark that it was very possible the repeating day could have nothing to do with the Powers folding time at all, but he could not fathom anything else with enough power or motives who could be doing it. He was intrigued by the idea that Angel's memories could have been created, but he remained uncertain on that front, too. He said he would look into it and call Angel tomorrow. Which wouldn't really help, because Angel had been deficient in the tomorrow department recently.

Angel had Giles tell him which volumes he was going to check through, so that if Angel repeated the day again, the latter could tell the former what Giles had already researched. At least then Giles could continue reading from where he left off, instead of going over the same books over and over again.

Meanwhile, the Angel Investigation crew tried to do some more research on their own, but they didn't scare up much. Angel planned to read on into morning, wondering what would happen when the next day started. Of course, he didn't think that sleep deprivation would be enough to keep time from turning back, but it was worth a shot. Before she and Doyle left for their date (to which Cordelia had finally consented, it seemed), Cordelia suggested Angel change something by his bed so he would know first thing in the morning whether tomorrow had come or not.

"Buffy and Willow were in my bed last night," Angel had said. "They weren't this morning. It was easy enough to tell."

"Hold up there, man," Doyle said. "You're telling me you had a Slayer _and_—"

"Angel!" Cordelia exclaimed sharply. "What about your curse?"

Angel rolled his eyes. "I wasn't in bed with them."

"But you had two girls in bed with each other," Doyle confirmed. "Was Velma gay?" he asked, turning to Cordelia. "'Cause I don't remember Velma—"

"Willow is not gay," Cordelia announced, aggravated. And then, because of the quirk on Angel's lips when she said it, she whirled on the vampire with an incredulous expression. "Is she?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," Angel replied. He waved a hand non-committally and turned away. "I'll lay my shirt on the chair beside my bed. If it's not there in the morning, I'll know it's still today."

"Got that, Cordy?" Doyle had asked, chuckling. "No shirt stealing."

"I don't get it," Cordelia replied, nose wrinkling. "Why would Willow be gay?"

"Good night," Angel had said, turning the lights off on the couple and walking down the stairs.

"I mean, she can't go around kissing my boyfriend and then turn out to be gay. Not that Xander was every my . . . Gay? My loser not-boyfriend got stolen by a not-guy-liking lesbian? Is she really gay? What does that say about me?"

* * *

_To Be Continued . . ._ _**

* * *

Disclaimer:** Lines stolen from AtS 1.8 "I Will Remember You." _


	11. Author's Note

Sorry, this is not a chapter update.

I just wanted to let anyone who was reading this story know that it is being continued, but will not be continued here. I was going to have to move it anyway because later on it does get into an NC-17 rating, and so I thought I might as well start posting it elsewhere. Also, some edits have been made to the existing chapters (nothing essential, and nothing you need to reread in order to enjoy the new chapters), including merging chapters 9 and 10. So, if you have read all the chapters here and want the next new chapter, start on chapter 10. New chapters are currently going up at:

h t t p / c o m m u n i t y . l i v e j o u r n a l . c o m / t k p f i c /

(Remove all the spaces from the address above and paste it into your web address, and you'll be able to access the site.)

This is a livejournal web site, but you do not need to have a livejournal to read it, or to leave comments. If you're enjoying the story there I'd love for you to let me know. If you do have a livejournal, this is a comm which is being used right now ONLY to post this fic, so feel free to friend it if you wish to follow along.

I apologize that this will no longer be updated here, and sorry for the inconvenience.

Thank you,

tkp


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